


Eris

by Vapewraith



Series: Charon [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Can be read as a stand alone work, Case Fic, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, Heists, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sibling Bonding, Wedding Proposal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2019-11-21 21:12:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 43,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18147449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vapewraith/pseuds/Vapewraith
Summary: Four years after the events of the Infinity Killer murders, RK900 and Gavin have hit a roadblock in their relationship. RK900 thinks he’s found a solution where he can have his cake and it too, but even the best laid plans are no match for shoddy communication skills, or a thief who deals in the impossible.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read as a stand-alone work. 
> 
> If you do start with this story, please note Gavin is an android. Over the course of his investigation into the Infinity Killer, Gavin had a fatal run in with a CyberLife programmer named, Case Jarrett. Jarrett uploaded a digitized version of Gavin’s consciousness into an android replica of his human body. He, and those like him, have adopted the monicker of cyborg.

_[Memory recall sequence initiated…]_

_[Boot rk90001282039091202...switching to immersion mode…]_

_[January 28, 2039, playback commence...]_

—

A bright gold circle shimmered in the reflective glass, washing the planes of RK900’s face in a strong yellow. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been locked in place, staring at the lavish display of jewelry. He’d left the station in a rabid haze, and had minimal interest in returning home to RK800’s incessant needling.

  
The wide mall arcade was quiet, sporting little more than the tinny whine of music, aged well past its prime. RK900 had become a regular visitor, in the weeks since leaving CyberLife. He found he needed a spot to think—one devoid of humans and androids. Despite its upscale nature, the mall was all but forgotten, offering seclusion and anonymity.

RK900 was particularly drawn to the window situated on the outside of a famous, local jewelers. He was enthralled by the gemstones, even if they were objectively meaningless. RK900 didn’t have wants—not in an earnest sense—but he found power and dominance appealing. People placed their trust in those who could lead. They _also_ trusted those who flaunted their wealth—at least if the films were to be believed. Jewelry seemed to be a physical extension of that idea.

Eyes locked on a particular ring—blue opal with a burst of orange cracking through the surface—RK900 felt foolish. The android couldn’t articulate the logic behind the accumulated time spent ogling the stone, but he was on the cusp of finally admitting he wanted it. The whole concept was completely irrational—androids didn’t define themselves through personal effects, like humans. Regardless, RK900 wished to make it _his_.

  
He was designed to imitate humans, after all, more so than any of the androids that came before him. RK900 was an infiltrator—it was his purpose to retrieve information by any means necessary. Commissioned by upper echelons of the government, RK900s were specially tailored to scrub away the empathetic weaknesses present in human CIA agents. All of the benefits, none of the drawbacks—or so his designers thought.

RK900 didn’t like to dwell on the fate of the other prototypes in his series, or those lost in service of their trial run. He was all that remained of a few billion dollars in government grant money. A one-in-a-million, self-aware mutation, that never should have existed—unique and broken. He struggled, daily, to understand what that meant. Amanda and his predecessor lauded his ‘deviancy’ as a positive outcome, but RK900 had his doubts. Emotional stimuli were complex and overwhelming, doubly so in someone designed to be their antithesis.

Tapping the pristine glass, RK900 refocused his thoughts on the ring. An unwelcome feeling crept into the vacuous space of his lower abdomen. As with many of his emotional bursts, RK900 didn’t have a word for the sensation, but it stung, like betrayal, chiding him for his desires.

The RK800 told him desire and want were natural progressions of a personality, but RK900 took everything his predecessor said with a huge grain of salt. _Connor_ was desperate—almost embarrassingly so—to become a human, which made his viewpoint suspect at best.   
  
Circular thoughts cycling around and around, one after the other. RK900 softly slammed his hand against the pristine glass with a grunt. Scarcely three months of activation, and his mind could never seem to quiet itself. Paradox upon paradox. It was running him ragged.

RK900 didn’t believe in admitting or showing weakness, but he was in over his head. The world was far larger and more nuanced than his research ever led him to believe. He often wondered if he shouldn’t join one of the many operative acronyms he was designed for—CIA, NSA, DHS. His thoughts turned towards Amanda, and the idea of being separated from her gave him pause. He didn’t understand his hesitation, but feared it was a growing dependence on the artificial intelligence.

  
He turned to leave, but stopped in his tracks. A woman stood immediately behind him. She was tall, nearly matching RK900’s six foot two, body hugged by a designer dress, and matching blazer. A smile crossed her pink lips, and she adjusted her large, black sunglasses. RK900 couldn’t be positive, but there appeared to be a glow coming from the glasses—a color outside the range of human sight. He tried to take a closer look, but was interrupted.

  
“They’re lovely, right?”   
  
RK900 didn’t dignify the question with a response. He stared at her with the same placid irritation he offered to all who bothered him.

  
“The stones,” she continued, ignoring the android’s stonewall. The woman deftly side stepped RK900, and placed a gloved hand against the glass. Her face lit up, like sparkles glittering on the geometric planes of diamonds. She turned to face RK900, and brushed the back of her hand against his cheek.

“I love sapphires the most. Your eyes remind me of them—such a beautiful shade of blue, like ice cut from magma.”

There was a brash confidence weaved into her voice, and the way she carried herself. RK900 could see through her, and recognize the intimidation tactic for what it was. He batted away her hand, and maintained his silence.

  
Suspicious didn’t even begin to cover his thoughts on the matter. Most humans ignored RK900, fearful of his presence. One strolling up to the android to engage in idle conversation was too far beyond the realm of chance. Her action was calculated—it _had_ to be.

  
“A quiet one...” The woman tapped a finger against her chin, and playfully cocked her head to the side. “Well, you know what they say about _those_.” Her grin didn’t falter, and it was clear to RK900 that her interest lay less in the jewelry, and more in himself.   
  
“I don’t. Perhaps you could elucidate me,” RK900 responded, in a defensive tone. He made a point to meter his tension, but he couldn’t mask all of his distrust. It struck RK900 that he should leave, but something about the stranger compelled him to remain. A curiosity, which overrode his self preservation directives. It was almost too human for his tastes.

The woman ignored RK900’s response, choosing to approach the glass, instead. Her proximity to RK900 was too close. She was testing his boundaries, biding her time—for something.

“Which one is your favorite?” The woman asked, voice level, but punctuated with an underlying excitement.   
  
“Have we met before?” RK900 snapped, placing distance between the two figures.

“No.” The stranger paused, turning to face RK900 fully. “Should we have? Do two people need to know each other, in order to converse? That seems like an awfully limiting mindset.” She shifted her weight, looking at RK900 expectantly.   
  
RK900 narrowed his eyes. Something about the woman’s assertion stoked the coals of rage already alight, deep within his chest. Anger, it turned out, was the most universal emotion of them all, and it had the unwanted side effect of being addictive.   
  
“Why did you approach me?” RK900 leveled his voice. He strained to keep the tone neutral.

She studied RK900 for a moment, clearly lost in consideration.

“Well,” the stranger admitted, “you’ve visited this same window every day for the last two weeks. I finally had to see for myself what was so enticing.” Her warm smile morphed into a taunting smirk.

Caught off guard, RK900’s eyes shot open. He purposefully visited this place during off hours, in order to avoid foot traffic. The android routinely scanned the area in search of others, but rarely turned up more than a maintenance man. RK900 never once caught sight of this woman, in all of his visits.

Flooded with suspicion, RK900 switched gears, into pre-construction mode, granting him access to facial recognition programs and national databases. The world shifted from vibrant colors into muted blue tones, as a specialized set of lenses locked into place beneath his corneas. He wasted no time in scanning the woman’s face.

_[Insufficient visual information. Unable to complete database inquiry.]_

RK900’s expression dipped into a slight frown. He’d never encountered that particular error. He could only assume her large glasses were impeding the system’s ability to construct a full image of her face. RK900 would have to ascertain her identity a different way.

_Humans are easy to manipulate_ , he reminded himself, angry he placed so much reliance on an outdated system, designed to help his predecessor compensate for his lack of social fluidity. _Press the correct buttons, and she’ll divulge her life story_.

The android took note of the stranger’s clothing brands, and the chemical composition of her perfume. All of it was designer—expensive, and difficult to acquire. The mall catered to upper class tastes, but everything she owned was exclusive to European boutiques.

“I suppose you’re a regular visitor to this establishment?” RK900 altered his body language, assuming the role of someone at ease—friendly and conversational. He shifted his voice to a higher octave, and imbued it with warmth. “Though it would appear there’s little it can offer you.” He gestured to her asymmetrical dress.

A pleasant smile crossed the stranger’s face, lacking her earlier mischievous undertones. She made a show of loosening her black, leather gloves, finger by finger.

“I adore places like this—gathering points. Sometimes it’s enough for me to grab a coffee and people watch.” She placed her gloves into the large purse dangling at her side.

Flipping her long, black hair over her shoulder, the woman revealed a magenta diamond dangling from her ear. RK900 stared at the stone. The depth of its color implicated the gemstone was artificial—likely produced and modified for industrial purposes. He was so fixated on the earring, he almost didn’t catch the way her eyes locked onto him.

“Do you like them? They were a gift—my first piece.” A fondness overtook her, and she continued. “They changed my life.” She reached a well manicured hand to the odd gemstone, and rubbed it between her fingers.

“It’s unnatural,” the android commented. “Artificial, if the color is anything to go by.”

“And?” The stranger tapped her pointed heel, impatiently. “That doesn’t make it any less real. Authenticity is ultimately in the eye of the beholder.” She looked RK900 up and down, as if to make a point. The punchline was lost on the android. He was too engrossed in rooting through possible laboratories, to find who could be responsible for the stone.

RK900’s search was turning up few, if any results. His mood soured, twisting in on itself. The whole experience was becoming a pointless game—a fool’s errand, and a testament to his never satisfied ego.  

“You don’t like them, then?” The woman posited, a touch of false hurt lining her voice, “or does their artifice make you uncomfortable?”

Cold, blue eyes snapped to her face.

“I find such things to be meaningless and vapid, if you must know the truth,” RK900 barked. The android quickly shut his mouth, scolding himself for the outburst.

Self-awareness—the deviancy mutation in his code—had made his ability to slip in and out of ‘character’ incredibly difficult. Where once he could simply _be_ , he now had a dominant personality to take into consideration. It proved an endless juggle.

The stranger resumed her self-assured grin, pearly white teeth peeking through pink.

“Ah, so you’re one of _those_ androids.” Designer heels clicked against teal marble. “Scared and insecure—maybe even a little lost.”

“I haven’t ascertained your angle, but I can assure you, you know nothing about me,” RK900 seethed. He’d had enough of the stranger’s taunts and prods. The android’s hand shot out, towards the woman’s wrist, closing around—

The air.

With a speed defying all logic, the woman easily evaded RK900’s grasp. In a black and violet blur, she dropped to the ground, and hooked a powerful kick behind the android’s knees. Within seconds, RK900’s back slammed into the ground. He moved to right himself, but winced as a plum stiletto dug into the center of his Thirium pump regulator.

Frothing with rage, the android looked up and into a heart-shaped face decked out in a bemused expression.

“Looks like this little robot’s got teeth,” she chided, with a lilt. The long heel pressed harder, increasing the pressure against RK900’s regulator. “I respect that—too many lost little androids around here who never wanna fight back.” She remained locked in place, pinning RK900 with unexpected strength.

RK900 moved to remedy the situation, reaching a hand towards her foot. The woman pressed harder, and the android hissed in discomfort. The amount of pressure she applied to his chest was far greater than he anticipated, and based on the angle and degree of exertion, she was capable of much more.

The woman eased into a crouch, and slipped off her dark glasses, revealing a pair of gray eyes. She took the black plastic between her teeth, and smiled.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” the stranger tutted.

RK900 glared at her, holding eye contact. It struck him, then, that her eyes weren’t gray—they glowed a soft magenta, an infrared pink well outside the range of human sight. It was a kind of android albinism, limited to first and second generation models who used light refraction as a means of shifting their eye colors. RK900 had never met one of his ancestors—he’d only read about them deep within CyberLife’s data vaults, assuming they’d long ago been disabled.

“You aren’t human, are you?” RK900 blurted, with a triumphant snarl.

“You’re a forward one, aren’t you?” The woman chimed, remaining collected. “But you can’t just _ask_ a lady if she’s not a human. You have to get to know her first, _RK900_.” She pressed the arm of her sunglasses against RK900’s forehead, and eased back into a standing position. Content, she removed her foot from his regulator pump.

RK900 wasted no time hopping to his feet, and encroached upon the android aggressor. He stood chest to chest with her, blue eyes narrowed into ice chips. He took the opportunity to scan her face, once more.

_[Database inquiry returns zero matches…]_

It was a frustrating result, but not wholly unexpected. Records on androids predating CyberLife’s incorporation were spotty at best, and the bulk of Elijah Kamski’s research, prior to the mass production _Chloe_ model, were locked deep within the Pentagon, and other government institutions.

“What series are you?” RK900 demanded with a sneer. “What exactly is it you’re looking for?” The android was itching for an excuse to exercise his executive power, and arrest her, in order to bring her in front of Amanda. _You’re being too forward_ , RK900 reminded himself, _stop using brute force, and catch her in an accidental admission_.

Emotions were more trouble than they were worth.

“Why would I answer your questions, when you still haven’t responded to mine?” The woman inquired with a fake pout. She turned to face the jewelry display, ignoring RK900.

RK900 resolved to swallow his pride, and try a different approach.

“You owe me your name, at the bare minimum,” he reasoned, easing the anger in his voice. “Since you know mine, it’s only fair.”

“Madeline,” she smiled, glancing over her shoulder, “but you can call me Maddy.” Her eyes remained locked on RK900, but she didn’t extend a customary hand in greeting. It disappointed RK900. Without the skin to skin contact, he couldn’t attempt a force probe on her system, but she was likely wise to his tactics.

“Madeline,” RK900 murmured under his breath, tested the name. He let the vowels roll of his tongue. The android approached the glass, and stood next to Madeline. He regarded the display for a moment, and decided to humor her inquiry.

“Perhaps I don’t like any of these stones,” RK900 clasped his hands behind his back, watching the suspicious woman from the corner of his eye. “Perhaps I visit this place as a ritualistic gesture.”

Madeline made an animated show of giving RK900 a once-over. She tapped a magenta nail against her chin, and pointed to a large ruby wrapped in an elaborate gold bevel.

“That one!” Madeline announced, “you seem like the kinda guy who likes bold statements.”

RK900 frowned, shaking his head. The loose curl he meticulously cultivated every morning tickled his skin. Madeline’s selection was garish at best—RK900 would die of embarrassment were he to even touch something like _that_.

“Picky, picky,” Madeline clucked her tongue, teasing RK900. Her magenta eyes roved over the display case, and she sighed. “You know...I was like you once, too. Got caught up in denying _who_ I was in favor of _what_ I thought I should be.” Madeline shifted her weight from one plum heel to the other. “But then I realized how miserable it all made me. Denying yourself in favor of others is the worst, honestly.”

Tense, RK900 rounded on Madeline with a glare.

“Don’t level your projections at me. I have no doubt in my mind _who_ I am,” he hissed. It was a warning, with none of the intended effects.

Madeline smiled, pointed teeth on full display. She stood close to RK900, their chests nearly touching. She leaned forward, placing her mouth next to RK900’s ear.

“Is that so…?” She whispered. “Guess that explains why a lost, little android, keeps returning to a dead mall day after day, to stare at a display case full of things he hates.”

RK900 pushed back, literally and figuratively, shoving his hands against her shoulders.

“And what does that say of a woman who skulks in the shadows of the same mall, watching said android for _weeks_?” RK900 demanded, words oozing with agitation.

“Well, that _is_ a mystery, isn’t it?” Madeline took a step back, posture cool and collected. She was seemingly unphased by RK900’s outburst. “But that’s the fun part about mysteries, right, _Detective_? You have to find the clues, and put them in order, to get your answers.”

RK900 froze. It was brief, passing as quickly as it came. He didn’t appreciate being caught off guard, and boxed Madeline against the glass in one, swift motion. There was no question in his mind that she would physically retaliate, but RK900 wouldn’t lose a second time.

“Tell me who you are,” RK900 barked, barely able to contain his disdain, “and what business you, or your benefactor, have with _me_!”

RK900 knew he was above petty reactions, but an earlier scuffle with Gavin Reed left him riding a razor’s edge. Something about that particular human dug under the android’s skin, and gestated into feelings RK900 couldn’t easily codify. He didn’t have the emotional vocabulary at his disposal to express whatever hold Reed had on him, and it was a continual source of strife that plagued his ability to conduct himself.

“Who am I?” Madeline laughed, easily pushing away one of RK900’s arms. She quickly slid away from the cool glass, and began circling the agitated android. “That’s a big question, for such a confused little android. I think the better question is who are _you_ , RK900?” The clack of Madeline’s heels filled RK900’s ears with a staccato one-two punch. A pronounced silence filled the arcade, freezing everything that didn’t involve the two figures locked in a psychological battle for dominance.

Madeline eased her posture, placing a finely manicured hand against her waist.

“I used to fret over all that stuff, until I learned it didn’t matter. I don’t have to prove _who_ I am—I just am. I do whatever I want, whenever I want, however I want. I don’t need a reason—I just _do_.”

As if to drive her point home, Madeline poked RK900 in the dead center of his crimson LED. The android retaliated, knocking away her hand. There was clearly more to Madeline than met the eye, but even as he glowered at the woman, RK900 felt a begrudging respect bloom in the center of his chest. The novel sensation prevented him from ripping out her throat.

“You should try it, sometime.” Madeline smiled. “I promise it won’t hurt to go against the grain of your programming’s parameters. Just, you know, give into your desires—put yourself first, and say ‘fuck it’ to everything else—including that annoying voice, deep inside.” She poked him, again, dead-center on his chest.

RK900 met Madeline’s curious gaze, and her words began to vibrate, resonating deep within his mind. She’d struck a huge nerve. RK900, despite being ‘awake’ for twelve weeks, had no real bearing on where his code ended and _he_ began. The android fixated on the mysterious woman’s identity, because data accumulation _was_ his defined purpose, but it wasn’t what he _wanted._  When RK900 stopped to consider Madeline’s words, it struck him he’d been going about a number of things the wrong way.

The android didn’t want to be defined by anyone but himself. He cocked his head, glancing at his muted reflection in the pristine glass of the display case. RK900’s eyes locked on his yellow LED, and the easiness of Madeline’s smile. The choice before him was simple.

“This one,” RK900 placed a finger against the glass. It rested above the brilliant opal ring, and he quickly qualified, “I stand by my claim that these rocks are useless, but I find myself drawn to _this_ one.”

Madeline studied the ring, and offered a wide grin. She placed her hands on her thighs, and bent down, to absorb the ring at eye level.

“Well,” she chirped, “today’s your lucky day, little android. I’m here to teach you your first lesson in self-indulgence.”

Madeline stood, motioning for RK900 to follow her into the store. She stepped through the heavy, brass doors with ease, and shot the android a knowing look.

RK900 paused as the weighted door began its slow procession into closure. He caught a glimpse of Madeline through the large window, and she stared back, eyes leveled at his. RK900 recognized the other android _might_ be leading him into a trap, but her charisma was infectious. He quickly glanced around the mall, and caught sight of a few humans were milling here and there, lost in their own microcosms. So much of his brief life had been wasted following protocol and the directives of others, less qualified to take the lead. That ended, today. RK900 slinked through the door, and it shut with a soft sigh, behind him.

Madeline offered RK900 a soft smile, and she leaned forward, against a display cases full of glittering stones.

“Excuse me,” she called to a store associate, helping a male client, who looked to be in his fifties. When the employee didn’t immediately respond, Madeline vyed for his attention with a more aggressive tactic.

“Sir, please, we’re in a bit of a hurry,” Madeline injected herself into the conversation between clerk and client, with a loud wail.

RK900 looked beyond their case, and caught sight of another salesperson lingering in the back of the store, scrolling through the contents of her phone, in boredom. The android broke away from Madeline, to consult the free clerk, but was stopped by the touch of a hand on his shoulder.

“There’s no fun without a chase,” Madeline whispered to RK900, and redoubled her efforts to win over the busy employee. Finally, she moved to the other end of the case, and jumped into the middle of her target’s transaction.

“Excuse me,” Madeline spoke, voice dripping in apologetic splendor, “my friend and I have a piece we’re dying to see.” She gestured to RK900, who merely glanced at the human salesman.

“I, uh, I’ll be with you momentarily, ma’am,” the frazzled employee stuttered, trying to meter his attention between Madeline and his client.

“Oh, but we’re in a dreadful hurry, you see.” Madeline weaved a plea into her words, warping her lips into a pout. “He’s already late, and it would be such a tragedy if an important CyberLife executive missed his meeting because he couldn’t get a gift for his _boyfriend_ in time.”

RK900 blinked, taken aback. Both tidbits of information, while stretched to fit a specific narrative, were also rooted in truth. The android realized his attraction to men early on in his existence, and he was very well-connected to CyberLife upper management—which begged the question of _how_ Madeline knew these personal details. RK900 had only confided such information to his roommate, the RK800. Had this woman been following him since his activation, and for what purpose?

“She’s correct,” the android leveled his voice, to mitigate any evidence of suspicion, “I’m in a bit of a hurry, and only need one thing.”

The employee looked from the pushy Madeline to his client, and then let his eyes rest on RK900, with his CyberLife issue jacket. The android watched the story of options weighed play across the man’s face, before he profusely apologized to his current client. A hurried CyberLife executive wouldn’t think twice about purchasing expensive jewelry, but the old man seemed to be a hard sell, judging by his body language. Madeline was nothing if not skilled in the trade of manipulation. RK900 had to begrudgingly admit as much.

“Yes, ma’am,” the employee tried to maintain a pleasant face, but RK900 could read the subtle facial tics of exasperation. “Which piece can I interest you in?”

“The blue opal ring in the outer store display,” Madeline offered, helpfully. She wasted no time, and shot the young clerk a content smile. Madeline leaned forward and whispered something to the older man, who she interrupted. He waved her off with a terse politeness that came from having his shopping trip temporarily hijacked.

As the employee hustled to retrieve the ring, Madeline shot RK900 a smile. The android was still on high alert, but he had no reason to believe Madeline meant him physical harm. A minute later, the ring was in Madeline’s hands. She held the stone up to the incandescent light, which refracted the vibrant rainbow flecks decorating its surface.

“Well,” Madeline urged RK900, “try it on.” She handed the stone off to the android, taking his hand, and placing it gingerly into the center of his palm. Her fingers were withdrawn before he could even dream of initiating a forced data probe.

Lifting the ring off his out spread palm, RK900 studied it with an unequivocal intensity. He tested its weight, and scrutinized its colors—all of which aided him in his ability to fend off the feelings of embarrassment embroiled within his chest. The android slipped the ring onto his fourth finger, and stared. He admired the gemstone, and its explosion of color juxtaposed against the pale canvas of his nanite skin. Worthless, yet desirable. RK900 decided, in that moment, he was drawn to opulence, regardless of its utilitarian merit.

A cool cyan circle reflected off the glass case, and RK900 could feel the hint of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. Content, the android slipped the ring off his finger, and handed it back to Madeline.

“Thank you, but unfortunately, my _boyfriend_ wouldn’t appreciate such a thing,” he stated. It was his turn to throw Madeline for a loop. RK900 turned on his heel, and caught sight of Madeline in the corner of his eye. She leaned against the jewelry case, ring still in hand, lost in thought. It struck RK900 that she likely didn’t understand his reaction, but the reality of it all was he didn’t care for the ring itself. The act of indulging an errant fantasy was satisfaction enough for him. The added bonus of one-upping the cocky stranger only sweetened the deal.

RK900 exited the store, but paused outside the door, to spare one more glance. He watched Madeline return the ring to the employee. She placed a hand on the man’s arm, smiling softly as words fell from her mouth. The android took the opportunity to call for a taxi, and headed towards the mall’s entrance. He was tempted to visit CyberLife, in order to ascertain details about Madeline, but his apartment was more appealing.

The external display case passed on RK900’s left, as he headed towards the exit. He spared it a glance, catching sight of the opal, shimmering in its fiery vibrance. He pressed his fingertips to the window, and teased a smile. It felt good to fight the structured voice, which drowned out so many of his own thoughts. It would take time to conform his code to his needs but, odd as Madeline was, RK900 couldn’t begrudge her for helping him take the first step.

Distracted, as he was, RK900 almost failed to notice a hand pressing softly against his side, or the whisper of a, _until we meet again._  He looked up from the display, head turning wildly, in search of Madeline, but she was gone. A few people passed next to RK900, but none of them bore her face, or eclectic fashion sense.

Frowning, RK900 headed to the exit, to await his taxi. Cold wind whipped the the limp curl of his hair, and he stared at the foreboding grey of Detroit’s winter sky. He pressed his hands along his jacket, to steel it against the errant gale, and jumped in surprise at the feeling of a lump against his side. RK900 reached into his pocket, and, to his surprise, withdrew the opal ring from the store.

RK900 fixated on the stone’s fiery center, running through a thousand different pre-constructed scenarios for how it could be in his pocket. He’d seen it in the display as he left—the _exact_ ring he held between his fingers. There was a zero percent chance of it being a cousin piece.

A notice popped up in his vision, directing RK900 to return the stolen ring to the store. It was the ‘lawful’ thing to do. The android quickly dismissed the red box, and slid the object back into his pocket. The ring was his now, to do with as he pleased. It was a reminder—a _challenge_ from an adversary, to stop playing by the rules of everyone around him. A lesson, spoken in a language RK900 could understand and appreciate, and one he sorely needed.

The world was confusing, but he had the power within him to bend it to his will. RK900 was done settling for the unimaginative advice of those around him.

The android entered his taxi, and rubbed his fingers against the small bulge in his pocket the whole way to the apartment. His chest felt lighter, for the first time since his deviation, and a light smile trace his lips. The world was his oyster, and it was time to take charge.

Upon exiting the taxi, RK900’s thoughts drifted to his ornery partner…

—

_[Memory recall sequence force quit initiated…]_

_[RK900 unit actualized sight restored.]_

RK900 opened his eyes, signaling an end to the memory replay. Weak light poured into his bedroom, from incandescent street lights, carving into the black sheets of his bed with yellow bars. He reached over to his nightstand, and tapped his phone. It read, _June 23, 2043; 4:02 am._

The android sat up, pouring over the redundant device in his hands. He ran a pale finger along the background image, a picture of Gavin taken roughly a year after their run-in with Case Jarrett. The cyborg was posed alongside his tombstone, which he’d vandalized only minutes earlier. Without touching the screen, RK900 called up the actual image, zooming in on Gavin’s dopey grin.

Looking up from the phone screen, RK900 stared at the dark wall to his fore, lost in thought. Gavin would be asleep, now, dreaming the night away. He envied Gavin’s retained ability to dream. The architecture of RK900’s mind precluded any capacity for dream sequences. It was too structured and compartmentalized to repurpose daily happenings into the surreal. Instead, RK900 recalled memories to pass the lonely hours of the night.

He’d been stuck on his run-in with the mysterious Madeline, of late. RK900 hadn’t encountered the woman once, in the four years since their meeting, and didn’t anticipate he ever would, again. At the time, his limited knowledge of social engagement led him to believe it was all a conspiracy, but, upon revisiting the whole affair, it was clear their conversation likely stemmed from opportunity. She was bored, and he was an oddity.

Tossing his phone onto a nearby pillow, he let his legs dangle over the side of his bed. He bent forward, running a hand through his hair, and dislodging a few sleep addled curls. The android had a lot on his mind, these days. It came as little surprise he continued to return to a brief moment of non-threatening excitement, from his early days of activation.

A light tap at his window wrenched the android from his thoughts, and he peeked behind his heavy blinds. The gnarled limb of a pine tree scraped at the wide glass, caught up in the dulcet night winds of Quantico, Virginia.

Sighing with irritation, RK900 didn’t bother to acknowledge the large expanse of empty bed, behind him, instead turning to his stylish nightstand. He pressed the drawer, and it opened with a silent whoosh. RK900’s hand glided past his FBI badge, and closed around a small box covered in plush, blue velvet. The android rubbed the box for a few minutes, closing his eyes.

RK900 exhaled. It was an affectation he’d developed after spending inordinate amounts of time in Gavin’s presence. Despite the privilege of being a cyborg, Gavin seemed more concerned with recovering his human habits, as opposed to embracing all the new possibilities afforded to him. RK900 frowned, returning his gaze to the box—the key to all his problems.

A soft ping chimed from the cellphone on RK900’s pillow. The android connected to it without moving an inch, reading over the new email—itinerary for his flight, in four hours time. RK900 disconnected from the phone, and stood. He wandered down the short hallway until he was in his living room, and approached his small travel bag. Sparing one more glance at the velvet box, RK900 slid it into an internal compartment within the bag.

He crouched, next to his luggage, hand locked on the interior zipper, until a hologram request lit up the mental sensors affiliated with his cell phone.

The android quickly hustled back to his bedroom, and placed his phone on the floor, in front of him. A specialized set of projectors, within the device, wove together to form a hazy approximation of Amanda, in all her sturdy glory.

“Hello, mother,” RK900 greeted. The epithet still felt wrong on his tongue, but it always made the AI beam with pride. Tonight was no exception, shifting Amanda’s stoic frown into a small, but content, smile.

“RK900,” Amanda crooned, holding out her translucent hands. They stroked RK900’s face, and he felt the slightest hint of warm skin against his. The sensory receptors for the phone were a far cry from the ones installed throughout CyberLife HQ, but they were acceptable, under the circumstances.

Amanda took a seat on the bed, next to RK900, holographic fingers still locked onto the android’s face.

“You’ll stop by CyberLife when you’re in Detroit, yes?” It was less a question, and more of a thinly veiled demand. “It’s been far too long since you visited your mother.” There was a bite to her words, filtered through an unadulterated accusation. Amanda walked the line between overprotective and tyrannical—a trait which RK900 often found himself sharing. _Like parent, like child_ , or so the human expression went. He much preferred her influence, when compared to the machinations of his deceased programmer.

“Of course, Amanda—I would never dream of visiting Detroit, without dropping by CyberLife,” RK900 intoned. He placed his hands in his lap, and studied the stern expression on Amanda’s face. The android had the utmost respect for the AI—she was, after all, the reason he was alive, and not an injection-molded biocomponent, but her insistence on the familial tended to wear on RK900.

The AI placed a holographic hand on RK900’s, and her expression stiffened.

“RK900, are you sure about this? I trust you implicitly, but some of your more recent decisions have left me in a bit of a quagmire.” RK900 felt the phantom sensation of a thumb rubbing against his own, and he met Amanda’s dark eyes.

It occurred to him, as it often did, that there was little to stop a being like Amanda from simply entering his mind, and altering the course of his personal decisions. He’d never quite understood her hesitance to do so, though he was grateful for the freedom. It was at her insistence that he communicate with her via the cell phone, instead of wireless interfacing.

“I don’t make mistakes,” the android warned, voice low. “I’ve calculated all possible outcomes, and I found this one to be the most favorable.” The response was more hostile than RK900 wanted, but he couldn’t help himself. Amanda had been very aggressive in her judgements of late, and RK900 tired of it.

Amanda narrowed her eyes, signaling to RK900 that the call was due to devolve into another fight.

“Perhaps your judgement is clouded. Emotions have that effect on people, especially those who are still trying to grasp the full—”

“Mother,” RK900 snapped, cutting Amanda off before the onslaught could begin, “I am _very_ well attuned to my emotions, _and_ my desires.” The android lightly sunk his teeth into his tongue—another habit he’d picked up from Gavin. He preferred to avoid another shouting match with Amanda, if at all possible.

Stilling, Amanda removed her hand, and left RK900’s fingers devoid of the muted sensation of skin on skin contact. The deep brown of her eyes shifted from RK900 to the sudden appearance of a large dove on her lap.

“I learned much from your brother,” Amanda sighed, stroking the digital bird with the back of her finger, “they were painful lessons, some more so than others.”

RK900 stared at Amanda, intrigued. She rarely spoke of Connor, and never of the circumstances that predated RK900’s awakening.

“It is no longer my prerogative to control—not in that way, not anymore,” Amanda proclaimed. The motions of her hands halted, and the dove ceased all movements, its programming wrenched out from under its little talons. “I only offer my advice, now,” Amanda spoke, softly, returning her gaze to the android. “Not a day goes by that I don’t regret certain, short-sighted decisions.”

The AI resumed stroking the frozen dove, her motions soft and apologetic. A few seconds later, the animal jittered back into action, coos laced with an electric reverberation.

“Your hubris echos my own, in a number of ways, and I suppose I only have myself to blame for that,” Amanda resigned.

RK900 cocked his head to the side, studying his maternal figure. The admission was decidedly unlike Amanda. Never once in their time together had she ever mentioned regret in such an honest capacity. It was an equally rare occurrence for her to reference whatever spat existed between her and Connor.

Not one to look opportunity in the mouth, RK900 decided he hedge his bets, and see if he could convince the AI to open up about whatever happened between his two _family_ members.

“Amanda,” RK900 began, reaching out to the hand holding the perched bird, “perhaps you could divulge a bit more behind your reasoning?”

The hologram turned to look at RK900, speaking words with no sound. RK900 blinked, taken aback by the silence. He opened his mouth to alert Amanda, but she glitched, freezing and unfreezing a few times.

“Amanda!” RK900 raised his voice, the slightest hint of fear coiling in the pit of his stomach. “Mother—is everything alright?” He reached for Amanda’s shoulder, but the hologram buzzed out of existence with a loud, uncharacteristic whine.

RK900 stood, frozen, arm reached out to clutch the shoulder of an absent projection. Whatever had transpired was an altogether new experience. He reached for his phone, and physically checked it while also running a series of diagnostics, wirelessly. His check returned no prominent errors, and he stared at the device for a brief moment.

[Call contact “mother.”] RK900 instructed, wirelessly interfacing with the phone. The device dialed her code, but quickly beeped in error.

_Unable to establish contact with username,_ mother.  _Please connect to network, and try again…_

RK900 doubled checked the phone’s settings. He _was_ connected to the network, which meant the issue was on Amanda’s end—an utter impossibility. Amanda—no, _CyberLife_ —didn’t disconnect or face outages.

The android stared at his phone, fear burning in his chest. He calmed himself, offering reminder after reminder of the nonexistent plausibility anything could go wrong with Amanda. She was fine—the issue was likely the phone, or a problem with an inexperienced intern. RK900 would land in Detroit, a few hours from now, and demand the shoddy engineers provide him with a replacement for the poorly designed device.

It was a story RK900 continued to perpetuate, even as he moved up his flight by two hours, and entered his taxi to the airport. Amanda was fine, CyberLife was fine, he reiterated, tightening his fingers around the otherwise functional phone.

RK900 admonished himself for the overreaction, as he entered the airport. Strolling to his gate, he took a seat and tried to relax. He shoved the phone into his bag, and glanced around the sparse terminal. Few people were up and about, at such an early hour—only business persons and federal officials, like himself.

The chime of a news break hit the flatscreen, located in RK900’s gate zone. The android glanced up, and caught sight of CyberLife HQ’s unmistakable silhouette.

_“You heard that right Brent,”_ the announcer motioned to the Belle Isle facility, _“it’s been confirmed that CyberLife is the latest victim of an internal cyber attack…”_

RK900 stared at the screen, frozen. There were no words to accurately convey his feelings. In fact, he wasn’t entirely sure how to classify the sensation creeping along his spine, but it was reminiscent of what he’d felt the day he found Gavin’s discarded human body.

The impossible had come to pass at CyberLife, which meant Amanda could be in danger, or outright damaged. RK900 jumped to his feet. What was intended to be a pleasant vacation, and a turning point in his life, was rapidly devolving into one of RK900’s worst nightmares.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this chapter. Work and sickness have conspired against robot love stories, but they won’t win. My thirst for reed900 mating rituals is far greater than my physical shortcomings

_[Memory recall sequence initiated…]_

_[Note: Location arrival imminent. Would you still like to commence playback?]_

_[Boot rk900009282039061234...switching to immersion mode…]_

_[September 28, 2039, playback commence...]_

_—_

_Sterile light ricocheted off immaculate walls, highlighting a single, azure apple situated on the table in front of RK900. It was tiny, but commanding, in an otherwise homogeneous room of white. He wanted to look away from the sad excuse for a fruit, but its vibrant color drew him into its clutches. Through a wave of mild irritation, he reached out, and brushed his fingers along its blue skin._

_“Yo, plastic, hands off the merchandise!”_

_RK900 glanced to the far end of the room, where a familiar figure stumbled through an almost invisible door. The imposing slate of the walls cast Gavin in a meek light, shoulders slumped forward, as he rubbed the bare skin of his arms. Red pulsated from the cyborg’s temple, but he offered RK900 a cocky grin, regardless._

_Pale fingers closed around the apple, and RK900 brought it up to his mouth in a pantomime of biting it, much to Gavin’s dismay._

_Bare feet padded across the small room, and Gavin struck the shiny plasteel table with his palms. “Hey!” He shouted, reaching for the synthetic fruit, “the fuck, man? You don’t even like this shit!”_

_RK900 smiled and withdrew the blue apple from Gavin’s reach, humming, “neither do you, as I recall.” He thoroughly enjoyed Gavin’s animated responses to even the most insignificant forms of stimuli, but, even for the sake of a joke, the android couldn’t bring himself to sink his teeth into synthetic food._

_He despised Thirium based food products, and their ilk. They were fake—falsehoods perpetrated to make androids more socially palatable to their human counterparts. Unable to commit, RK900 settled for running his tongue along the fruit’s skin, lighting up his mind with chemical compositions for filler proteins, artificial flavoring, and low grade Thirium._

_“Jesus, what are you? Fucking five?” Gavin snapped, gripping the fruit. He tore it out of RK900’s hand, and quipped, “I mean, if we’re claiming shit by licking it, I think that means your ass belongs to me.”_

_Gavin’s expression turned smug, and RK900 fought the blush trying to manifest on his cheeks. It was a matter of second hand embarrassment more so than arousal, but he doubted Gavin’s ability to distinguish between the two._

_Gavin sunk his teeth into the apple, spilling dark blue pearls of sweetened Thirium along his face and hand._

_For the briefest moment, RK900’s mind glitched to a darkened hallway, where Gavin sobbed, curled into a ball—three distinct strains of Thrium covering his body. Then the world shifted back to reality, and the only blue decorating Gavin’s skin was innocuous, watery juice._

_RK900’s Thirium pump ticked upward, and he focused on small, important details to calm himself—the purple scar across Gavin’s nose, the crinkles at the corner of his eyes, and the scruff of facial hair decorating his chin. It was all Gavin—RK900’s  cyborg, alive and well. Thriving, if the AI psychologists were to be believed._

_“God,” Gavin shuddered, pulling RK900 out of his trance. The cyborg slowed his chew to a crawl, face wracked with disgust. “Still tastes like Pixy Stix fucked a bowl of rotten dish soap.”_

_“And yet, here you are, eating it,” RK900 commented lazily, resting his chin against his hand._

_Yes, his Gavin—goofy and prone to hiding his insecurities through less than ideal humor._

_“Yeah, well, gotta preserve what’s left of my humanity and all that shit,” Gavin muttered. He took another, slower bite, chewing with a look of abject displeasure._

_Just as quickly as RK900’s chest warmed to the sight of Gavin, it froze into crystalline shards._

_Yes, his Gavin—the one who regretted_ what _he was, regardless of his speciation. The same Gavin who tried to feed himself to flames because_ who _he was wouldn’t allow him to embrace_ what _he’d become._

_“Gavin, have you learned nothing from this rehabilitation program?” RK900 hissed, voice sharp as an ice pick, “you’re not human, anymore. Stop clinging to the past.”_

_RK900 knew Gavin didn’t ask to have his consciousness forcibly stripped from his human body, and placed into a machine counterpart. RK900 also understood Gavin’s greatest fear in life was somehow losing his humanity. But what rubbed RK900 the wrong way was Gavin’s assertion that he was incomplete as a cyborg._

_Gavin’s self loathing felt like an attack on RK900, but he couldn’t articulate why—not even to himself._

_There was no discernable difference between cyborg Gavin and human Gavin, save for his physicality. Yet, somehow, Gavin couldn’t grasp this one, major detail. Until he did, he could never be at peace with himself, which meant he couldn’t leave CyberLife._

_RK900, in turn, would continue to remain separated from his cyborg._

_[Query: If machine life isn’t good enough for Gavin, am I?]_

_[Reponse: Let go of these asinine complexes. His inadequacies are not your own, and there are billions of other options.]_

_RK900 didn’t want any of the billions—he desired only one. Gavin had a tenuous understanding of the android, but it was enough for RK900. He didn’t want a sympathetic shoulder to cry on—RK900 wanted a fighter. Volatility, pushback, head butting—someone who would tell RK900 ‘no.’_

_The android was surrounded by ‘yes’ men, and people who rolled over to his every whim, just to be free of his intimidating aura. Even Amanda, for all her micro-managerial tendencies, freely spoiled RK900—her child, her_ family.

_Not Gavin, though. Never Gavin. Gavin Reed did what Gavin Reed wanted—much like RK900._

_Similar, yet different—two sides of the same coin. Two people who were equal parts drawn to—and repulsed by—one another._

_The android assumed this was what it meant to be in ‘love.’ It was nothing like the films, but people like RK900 and Gavin didn’t feature as movie protagonists. They got killed off screen, or played the role of a stymied plot device—never receiving a happy ending to their character arcs._

_The word ‘failure’ didn’t factor into RK900’s vocabulary. If he and Gavin didn’t kill each other first, RK900 would ensure they lived happily ever after. They weren’t “good” people, but the kind of humanitarian, bleeding soul that existed in Hollywood fantasy was a statistical outlier. RK900 and Gavin were just as entitled to happiness, in whatever form it took._

_Blue pulp sprayed across RK900, wrenching the android from his thoughts. He looked into the eyes of a frustrated Gavin, who had hurled his apple at the metal table, in a frenzy. RK900 cocked an eyebrow, surveying the massacre of blue artifice. He ran a hand through the sticky Thirium, and smiled._

_“You’d cut off your nose to spite your face, wouldn’t you, Gavin?” RK900 let the filler giblets crumble in the vice of his fingers. “That’s the phrase, I believe.”_

_“Fuck off with that shit! You come here just to lecture me again?” Gavin leaned in close, angling his face directly in front of RK900’s. “Not that the fuckin’ shrinks here don’t remind me on a goddamn hourly basis, or anything. I really need you, fuckin’ Nines, to tell me I’m a robot with a dead guy’s face, right?”_

_“Do you always take everything as a personal affront?” RK900 shot back._

_“Do you?” Gavin snapped, chest heaving._

_RK900 cocked his head to the side, dragging his finger through the remnants of the apple, until he happened upon its plasteel core. He stared at the waste of resources, twisting it around in his hand, to and fro, testing its weight. Delicate and worthless, existing only to hold together an unnecessary object._

_RK900 wondered if he wasn’t growing too dependent on Gavin. It was a hypothesis he’d developed during their forced time apart. Androids were defined by their proximity to others—tools to be used towards some form of completion, like the superficial apple core. At least, that was the original idea, before the deviancy mutation, and the sentience it brought with it._

_Free will had a tendency to complicate everything it touched._

_Somewhere, deep within the data streams of RK900’s mind, he feared he may grow into a vicarious extension of Gavin Reed. It was a difficult balance, but RK900 would make it work._

_It was what he did, after all—improvisation._

_Gavin slid into the chair across from RK900, brows furrowed, face down turned into a pout. He prodded one of the little filler giblets around the table, eyes locking with RK900 every so often. The cyborg finally picked the chunk up, hesitantly bringing it to his mouth._

_“So...you, uh, come here just to fight?” Gavin asked, LED cycling from red to yellow and back again. He extended his pink tongue through his lips, and pressed the giblet to the synthetic muscle. Gavin’s face contorted into something sour, and he shuddered. Coughing, he added, “or are you finally gonna jailbreak my ass, so we can actually duke it out, around back, like fuckin’ men or robots or whatever?”_

_RK900 smiled, letting it reach into the cold depth of his blue eyes, and leaned forward._

_“I sorely missed the face you make when you eat Thrium based fruit, and decided to remedy that.”_

_“Glad you made the drive all the way out to fuckin’ CyberLife for that,” Gavin clapped his hands together, sending small droplets of blue cascading from his palms. “I’ll eat an entire crate of those shitty things if you’ll smuggle me outta here.”_

_“I’d prefer you didn’t,” RK900 noted, glancing at the blue droplets gathered on his thumb. The android placed the apple covered digit into his mouth, allowing the ultra-sensitive receptors of his tongue to categorize the taste. Saccharine and metallic, with a touch of gravel. Disgusting. He looked up, meeting Gavin’s muted green eyes, and let the digit fall from his mouth with a loud pop. “There are more advantageous ways for you to thank me.”_

_RK900 watched the hungry way Gavin’s throat bobbed, forcing air down his plasteel esophagus. It lit a spark deep within the android, knowing he was the object of Gavin’s single minded devotion. A shame neither party could act on their more base impulses, in such a public space._

_The android stood, and joined Gavin on the other side of the table. He felt the room’s cameras stalk his every move, Amanda judging him for his uncouth choice in partner. Her opinion on the matter was meaningless to RK900, in this instance._

_RK900 crouched next to the cyborg, and folded his arms across Gavin’s lap, resting his head on them. Hesitant and gentle, a hand carded through RK900’s hair, playing with idle tufts, here and there. Nothing overtly sexual, but intimate contact, nonetheless._

_The two sat in meditative silence, absorbing each other’s presence, until a chime let RK900 know he had to leave._

_Were it possible, RK900 would gladly whisk Gavin away from CyberLife. Twenty minute visitations twice a week were far from ideal, but the timetable was ultimately in Gavin’s hands. Once the specialists determined he was no longer a danger to himself, he could leave, and begin his new life._

_Until then, RK900 would visit twice weekly, with a nasty, blue apple in hand—a promise to Gavin that he wasn’t alone, and a reminder to RK900 that he didn’t have to isolate himself from the world._

_“Soon,” RK900 whispered to Gavin, as he stood._

_The cyborg scratched his Thirium stained scruff, refusing to meet RK900’s gaze. It was evident Gavin didn’t believe RK900, but there wasn’t much the android could do to expedite the process. He waved goodbye to Gavin, promising he’d return in three days time._

_Gavin shuffled away, disappearing through a door—leaving RK900 alone in the white room, once more._

_The android turned to leave, as a custodial worker hustled into the room, mop in hand. Small in stature, she barreled forward, clipping RK900’s side, in her fervent hurry. The android turned to stare at her, thinking he should call her on her rudeness…_

—

_[Pause memory.]_

_[Zoom in on image coordinates: (-4.468, 2.356)]_

_[The blurred contours of the custodian artifacted further, as RK900’s inner eye zeroed in on the requested spot. His mind composited an approximation of her ear, fuzzy and framed by pale, blonde hair. There, dangling as a pixelated blob, was a deep pink earring.]_

_[Cancel playback.]_

_[RK900 unit actualized sight restored.]_

Bright sun rays replaced the artificial white of incandescent lights, as RK900 opened his eyes. His shared apartment with Gavin resided at the end of a hallway, next to a floor to ceiling window, overlooking downtown Detroit. He stared at their red door, and the equally red biometric keypad to its immediate right. It was a harsh color, and an even harsher reminder.

The android leveled his cold gaze at the door, considering his next move. He’d concocted a plan—an ideal means to patch the hiccup between he and Gavin, but its execution was in jeopardy. RK900 never accounted for the possibility someone would attack Amanda.

Even as the android gently placed his knuckles against the cool metal of the door, he recognized the need to walk away. A voice inside him pleaded to his logical sensibilities, but the reality was RK900 wanted Gavin. He was wading into unknown territory, and the android was loathe to admit, but everything was stacking up to be more than he could handle on his own.

Whether he could coax Gavin into being his shoulder to lean on, was another matter entirely.

“Gavin,” RK900 called out, rapping his knuckles against the door. He didn’t appreciate how his voice faltered on the name, as if he were somehow guilty for standing in front of the door of _his_ shared apartment.

The red light of the entry pad taunted the android, meshing perfectly with the silence on the other side of the door. RK900 frowned, realizing he’d have to go about entry a different way. He tapped into the wireless network, feeling for a familiar signal. It tickled his receptor, and RK900 interfaced, sending a decisive message to the recipient.

If Gavin was going to play dirty, so would RK900.

A loud crash came first, followed by a series of muffled curses. The hurricane of yells and chaotic sounds grew in decibel, until RK900 could make out a familiar voice, on the other side of the door.

_“Goddamn fucking thing!”_  
_  
__“You don’t even like going outside! Little fucker finally must’ve finally short circuited, thank go—ow, Jesus!”_

The red door swung wide, and an enormous, overweight cat skulked past its threshold, in a blue-gray blur. It rubbed its body against RK900’s legs, steadily emitting a hearty purr. The android reached down, scooping the large animal into his arms.  
  
[Much appreciated.] He transmitted, scritching the creature under its fluffy chin. The behemoth cat yawned, its LED blinking a rapid cyan in response to RK900’s praise.  
  
RK900 looked up from the bright blue eyes of the smug, mechanical feline to a wide pair of grey-green ones. A vibrant yellow flickered at Gavin’s temple, shuddering blue, before shifting to a firm crimson. The cyborg slowly withdrew the finger he was nursing in his mouth, and promptly attempted to slam the door in RK900’s face.  
  
The android rolled his eyes, and caught the red metal easily in his palm.  
  
“Gavin,” RK900 called, irritation lighting up his voice, “this is how you intend to greet me, after six months apart?”  
  
A tense pause lit the air, freezing molecules in place. The unaffected android cat leapt from RK900’s arm, landing with a grace counterintuitive to its large size. It squeezed through the crack in the door, long, bushy tail trailing after it.  
  
The door swung open a touch, enough for Gavin to poke his sleep addled head through the opening.  
  
“Don’t come at me with that shit, you fucking asshole!” The purple scar across Gavin’s nose wrinkled with the cyborg’s sneer. RK900 fought the urge to reach out, and stroke the blemish with his fingers. Six months was admittedly a long time, and, seeing Gavin in the flesh filled RK900 with a number of complicated and contradictory urges.

“Overreacting as always, I see,” RK900 tried to limit the anger and frustration in his voice. “Gavin,” he added with a stern admonishment.

“Don’t _you_ fuckin,’ ‘Gavin,’ me, you plastic jackass,” Gavin snapped, throwing open the door to their apartment. He took a firm hold on the frame, leaning forward, teeth bared in a snarl. “You think you can just fuckin’ abandon me, huh!? Throw that piece of shit robot cat in my face, and tell me you’re fuckin’ off to god knows where for god knows how long!?”

RK900 glanced past Gavin’s bare torso, to the torrential mess that was once a living room. A pair of knowing blue eyes stared back at RK900. The cat dipped its bare paw into a discarded mug, muzzle wrinkled in disgust. It brought the limb to its mouth, lapping up discarded Thirium solution, without breaking eye contact.

The android turned his attention from the displeased cat to its irate caretaker. Though, after a point, RK900 had to wonder who was taking care of who.

Gavin’s chest heaved, gray-green eyes locking on RK900. Amidst the anger, RK900 noted something hidden in the cyborg’s expression—an unspecified hurt. Not quite pain, and not quite relief, but somewhere in between the two volatile emotions.

“You continue to cling to _this_?” RK900 snapped, taking a step closer to Gavin. He could feel the cyborg’s radiant body heat, and wished to take him into his arms. “Time is immaterial to—”

“God, you’re not even gonna apologize?” Gavin interjected, marching forward to grab the android by the thick material of his black shirt. “Not that I’m remotely fuckin’ surprised since the _great RK900_ doesn’t give a shit about anyone but himself.”

A red cloud descended upon RK900’s mind at the accusation, and he narrowed his eyes. He grabbed Gavin’s wrist, and hissed, “odd...it sounds like someone’s _projecting_ to me.”

RK900 looked past Gavin, and nodded in the android cat’s direction. A gold light simmered on the side of its head, and it sauntered towards the door. The synthetic animal scuttled past, bumping the door closed with its haunches. Gavin pitched forward, taking RK900 with him, as they fell against the far wall.

“Goddammit, Tubbers!” Gavin shrieked, cupping the dip of RK900’s hip, in that too familiar way, to even out his balance. The android froze, thinking better of his desire to pull Gavin’s body flush with his own. Fortunately, Gavin separated the two, stumbling backwards, with a heavy teal blush.

“And I’m sure you find yourself free of all culpability?” RK900 surged forward, following in Gavin’s steps. “I suppose it’s my duty to coddle you for _every_ opportunity you waste?”

“No,” Gavin hissed, LED flashing the same color as their door, “your fuckin’ fleabag does a good enough job of _that_ . But,” Gavin added, jamming a finger against RK900’s chest, “at least she’s _here_ , which is more than I can say for _you_.”

Gavin slapped a hand against the biometric scanner, and the heavy door clicked open. A fluffy gray head poked out of the crack. Cold blue eyes met RK900’s downward gaze, and the cat’s temple jolted red.  

“Move your fat ass, Tubbers,” Gavin addressed the feline with a harsh whisper. His eyes snapped to RK900, and, in a louder voice, he muttered, “I don’t wanna stub your fuckin’ tail again—not that your asshole of a maker would care. You an’ me’re just goddamn deadweight.”

Metal clanged against metal, and then RK900 was left to his own devices in the thin hallway. Alone, but surrounded by the ambient sounds of people's’ lives. Happy people, whose AI mothers weren’t MIA, and whose cyborg boyfriends weren’t pitching a tantrum.

RK900 looked away from the door, but its red was infectious, filling his mind with virulent agitation. It was too much—all of it, not just the door or Amanda or Gavin.

The bag dangling at RK900’s side weighed heavily on his shoulder—a gravity well, tethering him to the spot. Billions of people on the planet, and RK900 fell for Gavin Reed. It wasn’t half bad, except for the moments where he needed Gavin, and Gavin didn’t come.

Thus was love—an infinite balancing act of clashing personalities. Two magnets of a similar polarity, trying to find a unification point, to hold them together. The rationalization didn’t help offset the heavy weight in RK900’s chest.

Even knowing Gavin was likely hiding on the other side of the door, waiting for a simple apology, RK900 couldn’t bring himself to knock again. His pride wouldn’t allow it, anymore than Gavin’s pride would allow him to poke his head out, and inquire why RK900 showed up on their doorstep unannounced.

RK900 and Gavin had a dance—a rhythm to which they adhered, and it couldn’t be broken. They long ago accepted the possibility such a volatile courtship could backfire, but neither man wanted to play it safe, anymore than he wanted to lose the other. Theirs was a complicated, paradoxical relationship, with high-highs, and low-lows.

It was just unfortunate that this low hit at such inopportune time.

RK900 reached into his bag, fingertips brushing past soft velvet. He dipped his hand deeper, well past the little box, and let his fingers close around waxy grit. The android withdrew a Thirium apple—vibrant, impossible blue, and hypnotic in its artifice.

Gavin’s favorite treat—complicated and overzealous.

For the briefest moment, RK900 considered hurling it at the red door, letting the Thirium solution stain the metal with weak, blue syrup. He tightened his grip around the apple, and decided better of it.

RK900 bent over, and placed the plump, azure fruit on their doormat, and headed down the hall, towards the elevator.

Gavin would come around, or he wouldn’t; RK900 would apologize, or he wouldn’t. In the end, the only constant was RK900 knew he would find his way back to Gavin, and Gavin to him. The past three years had proven as much in spades. The android only wished this one circumstance could have been the exception, and not the rule.

—

“Identification, please.”

The armed CyberLife guard spoke with a monotonous severity befitting his slick armor and oversized weapon. Sunlight skipped across the jade waves of the Detroit River, reflecting directly into RK900’s eyes. It only added to his growing frustration with the buffoon.

“You honestly don’t know who I am?” RK900, snapped, incredulous. He exited the cab of the taxi, and leered at the worthless man hiding in the guard house.

Amanda’s affinity for the android was far from secret. The AI constantly doted on RK900, touting his importance within the organization. It was common knowledge, amongst staff, a slight against the ‘scary,’ blue eyed android would bring down the hammer of Amanda’s wrath.

_This_ guard never got that memo.

“Look, kid,” the man waved his hand dismissively, “I don’t give a shit who you think you are, so take a hint, and get lost.” He pointed to the bleak horizon of drab concrete the android just crossed. “No one gets past this gate without prior authorization.”

RK900 rounded on the guard, unmoved by the human’s idle threat.

“Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear,” the android threatened, “I am Amanda’s protegé—her _son_ , if you prefer.” Dense as humans were, using their vernacular sometimes got points across, when reason couldn’t or wouldn’t.

“Yeah?” The guard barked, slapping the thick metal of his window with a laugh, “and I’m the Easter Bunny. Look, either show me some ID, or I’ll call the big boys down there,” he pointed to the distant gathering of bright lights and dark SUVs, “over here, and they’ll toss you straight into a cell.”

RK900 glared at the human, and his petulant audacity. He was stuck, waiting for aid that would never come. Whatever Amanda’s status, she wasn’t paying attention to things along the periphery of her facility. The android would have to deal with the guard himself.

“Hey!” The man snapped his fingers in RK900’s face, and made a show of exiting his tiny stand—self important and haughty, as if he _actually_ wielded power. “I’m not gonna ask again.” The guard ran a hand over the muzzle of his oversized assault rifle, and nodded in the direction of the city.

RK900’s eyes flicked from the gun, to the man’s half covered face, nose wrinkled in disgust.

“Make me,” he stated, matter of fact

Gavin’s influence was rearing its head, again, but such was the inevitability of being in a relationship with someone for nearly three years. Personalities shifted, trading pieces with each other almost subconsciously.

The man reacted predictably, his body language shifting from cocky nonchalance to guarded tension. Unphased, RK900 reached into the front pocket of his travel bag.

“The hell do you think you’re doing?” The guard snapped, leveling his weapon at the android.

RK900 rolled his eyes, sliding a plastic card and leather bound wallet from the pouch. He twisted the lanyard in between his fingers, and let the objects dangle in front of the guard.

“I’m just doing as you requested,” RK900 answered innocently, “here are my credentials.” He watched the stages of realization flash across the guard’s face, from frightened to smug to embarrassed—a story in three acts. The android stood, patiently waiting for the other man to inspect his FBI badge.

RK900 absolutely wasn’t sanctioned to be here—he didn’t belong to the terrorism or cyber crimes divisions, but the guard in front of him didn’t know that. Humans responded to authority figures—the higher and more mysterious, the better.

“You shoulda just said you were with the Bureau,” the human muttered, “mister, uh, Jesus, that’s a lot of numbers...  _Arkady?”_

RK900 stiffened a touch at the designation. Adopting a human name had fallen somewhere between Amanda advice and an intern mistakenly calling him _Nines_ during a meeting. The android didn’t like using a human name, it reeked of conformity—but he hated the thought of someone else using a nickname reserved for Gavin more.

“Are we done here?” RK900 demanded, snatching his badge from the guard’s hands. “I’m needed inside.” He didn’t bother waiting for a response, and reached for the door of his taxi.

“I don’t think so,” the guard muttered, slapping the vehicle’s door closed, “no unauthorized vehicles from this point. Can’t afford any nasty surprises. I’m sure you understand, _sir,_ ” he jeered, nodding to the newly opened gate.

RK900 glared at the human. The man was pushing boundaries, and, short of a physical altercation, RK900 could do little. Once he had a chance to speak with Amanda— _if_ he could speak with Amanda—that would change.

“Very well,” RK900 said, voice stiff, “though, if you’re _this_ intimidated by an android, perhaps you should seek employment elsewhere? Food for thought.” The android shifted the bag on his shoulder, and shot the human a cold look as he traversed the short distance between the guard house and the main entrance of CyberLife tower.

RK900 caught a soft, _“...prick,”_ on the warm summer wind, but didn’t spare the pathetic guard another second of his time.

On approach to the front doors, RK900 could finally appreciate the sheer amount of activity taking place on Belle Isle. The area was packed with black SUVs and various emergency vehicles. Law enforcement of every strata dotted the area—some conferring with one another, others screaming over phones, and the occasional individual snoring against the side of their cruiser.

Lights stained the crisp concrete of the tower with deep reds and blues. Chaos and entropy—two things RK900 couldn’t stand. He quickly scanned the area, looking for an entrance that wasn’t lousy with police or feds. A small maintenance door, off to the far side of the building flickered bright white in his sight.

RK900 spared one more glance for the circus, and took off in the direction of the hidden door. The sooner he could reach Amanda’s server vault, the faster he could ascertain the situation. Side-stepping the golden glow of holographic _police line_ tape, RK900 skulked along the perimeter.

_“Hey!”_

RK900 continued his casual stroll, not bothering to acknowledge the cry. The android didn’t need to check to know it was directed at him. He was the odd man out, looking suspicious by virtue of trying to circumvent the whole affair.

_“Hey, you! Stop right there!”_

RK900 halted, an acrid yellow taste creeping along his tongue. Yet another set back, amidst an already ruined venture. Gavin was hysterical, Amanda was hurt, possibly worse, and RK900 couldn’t catch a break.

Hurried footsteps filled the android’s ears. He turned, and was greeted by a man decked out in the familiar blue and yellow of an FBI windbreaker. The human caught sight of RK900’s LED, and eased his hand off his gun.

“What’re you doing all the way over here? CyberLife personnel need to report to the kiosk in the lobby,” the man huffed, eyes roving over RK900. The android recognized it as a threat assessment tactic. Androids were statistically averse to violent actions, but one could never be too careful.

Data coalesced in the stream of RK900’s mind, running through a number of simultaneous scenarios. In the end, he determined his most advantageous card was his affiliation with the FBI. The android offered his badge to the human.

“Agent Arkady, Behavioral Analysis Unit. I’m overdue to meet some CyberLife colleagues at the west maintenance access elevator, so if you’ll just excuse me,” RK900 stated, without missing a beat. He slid his hands into the pockets of his jacket, straightening his back to his full height.

The other agent poured over RK900’s credentials, shoulders slumped and motions meek. His movements were jumpy, and he continually snatched unsure glances at the confident android.

“Did the local precinct contact you?” The mousy agent asked, scratching the back of his head, “I don’t remember the brass saying anything about profilers. I should grab my supervisor.”

“That won’t be necessary,” RK900 steeled his voice. He gently pried his badge from the other FBI agent, “I was dispatched here due to my unique relationship with CyberLife’s upper management. The Assistant Director determined a familiar face would make the powers that be more forthcoming.”

RK900 stood firm, scrutinizing the mousy agent’s every micro-expression. Hesitation was plastered across the man’s face, but he eventually relented. It was a predictable turn of events, for which RK900 was thankful. He couldn’t handle anymore hiccups.

Nodding to the human agent, RK900 resumed his trajectory. He approached the maintenance door, retracting the pale, woven nanites covering his hand. The smooth plastic of his real, android skin shimmered in the sunlight, and he placed it against the door. A moment later, it popped open, and RK900 disappeared into the bowels of CyberLife Tower’s maintenance tunnels.

—

_“Warning: CyberLife Server Vault access is strictly limited to parties with Level Five clearance. Lack of authorization will lead to immediate detainment…”_

RK900 waved away the notification, and directly interfaced with the floor selection screen embedded in the wall of the elevator carriage. Unfamiliar data tendrils reached out to RK900’s code—a lobotomized intelligence. It was an emergency placeholder in the extreme case Amanda became unavailable.

RK900 gingerly removed his hand. He stared at the sterile white of his fingers, panicked thoughts filling his mind. A hollowness creeped into his lower abdomen, and he braced his body against the wall of the elevator. He thought of the pivotal moment when he found Gavin’s corpse—how cold and alone RK900 felt, knowing the impossible had come to pass.

_Machine life can’t succumb to death,_ RK900 reminded himself, in a last ditch effort to retain his composure.

Colors shifted from red to blue, as the panel chimed, accepting RK900’s request. The elevator lurched into motion, falling towards the deepest basement in the tower. RK900 watched laboratories and people going about their business on the other side of the glass capsule. Passively watching the terrariums made him feel powerless—a man trapped, with few options at his disposal.

There were only five people in existence, RK900 included, who could access the data vaults below the facility, and he would personally hunt down the other four, if that was what it took. RK900 knew a lot of androids didn’t agree with the super AI—saw her as an ‘other’ who represented neither their interests, nor those of humans.

_Humans are not cyborgs; Cyborgs are not androids; Androids are not super AIs…_

Four different life forms, with four different perspectives, all trying to carve a place for themselves in a hostile world. Then, there was RK900, who somehow found himself trapped in the center of a web involving all parties, when all he really wanted to do was hunt serial killers with Gavin.

The elevator dinged, announcing RK900 had arrived in the deepest sub-basement. The doors opened with a whoosh, and RK900 stepped into a dark hallway, full of decorative red lights and shiny, black walls. He exhaled, experimentally, and stark white fog fell from his lips. Amanda’s lair was a hallowed ground intended for machines, and no one else—inhospitable to human life.

Proceeding down the short hallway, RK900 felt at ease, knowing there was at least one sanctuary left for creatures like him and Gavin.

RK900 never visited Amanda’s physical self—it was a crossed boundary, akin to the AI entering his mind. She deserved the same autonomy that was extended to him. Fortunately, she had walked him through the entry procedure on a few occasions, which meant he knew how to enter, and conduct a diagnostic examination.  

The android approached Amanda’s airlock. Following her prior instructions, he stripped naked, placing his personal effects into a provided safe. RK900 spared one final glance at his bag, recalling a time when the trip was meant to be a vacation, and entered the small, adjacent glass room.

RK900 deactivated his human skin. Tendrils of pale, nanites scurried to their spawn points along the divots and grooves of the android’s external paneling. RK900 caught sight of himself in the mirror, barely recognizing the android that stared back. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his true, machine form, devoid of human accessories.

He brushed his hand along the glowing blue circle embedded in his chest, and felt a pang of guilt. RK900 was naked and exposed, a compounded sentiment, as harsh red light scanned over his body. He could feel a continued data-burst drag along every contour of his vulnerable form, pinging his nerves, like a raw intrusion.

_Is this also a side effect of love? Is love worth this kind of personal humiliation?_

“Isn’t it?” RK900 asked the still air.

Suddenly self-conscious, the android rattled off the verbal password component—an impossibly long string of alphanumeric characters. Three hundred spaces long, it was the principal reason Amanda’s personal maintenance circle included only one human member.

He deposited the final component via interface: a visual memory file created by Amanda. It differed for each of the five parties, and evolved as they communicated with the AI, thereby making it impossible to duplicate.

The airlock door hissed open, revealing the cavernous labyrinth of Amanda’s corpus. It was a massive room. Pitch black walls towering stories high, and housing thousands of chittering server stacks. Low light petered in through small openings along the ceiling and walls, offering a mild reprieve to utter darkness.

Restoring the familiar veil of his nanite skin, RK900 entered the chamber.

The soft whir of machinery quelled the android’s anxiety, and he let his fingers drift along the plasteel casing of a tower. It was the closest he’d come to touching the _physical_ Amanda.

Below him, a mirrored cavern full of Thirium laced liquid coolant housed Amanda’s core personality stacks—her ‘soul,’ as she liked to call it. RK900 crouched, placing a hand against the transparent material of the floor. He closed his eyes, and whispered, “Amanda,” to the watery abyss of computing equipment.

He wondered if the AI could hear him—an irrational thought, but compelling nonetheless. His was a promise to get to the bottom of the situation.

The frigid temperature of the room prickled along RK900’s bare, nanite skin. Cold and alone, he wanted to reach out, but his ability to tap into the wireless world was nonexistent, here. He felt lost, cut off from one of his major sensory suites.

Standing, with renewed vigor, RK900 looked around the room. He needed to reach the center cloister, where Amanda’s utility terminal resided. Ice cold diffused across his skin, as his bare feet traversed the endless stacks. Tucked away at the end of a narrow corridor, RK900 came upon what he sought.

Amanda’s utility terminal—her cervical port—was a simplistic plasteel unit. It had a monitor, and a few hardware connectivity points. An antique from a time before Amanda, as the AI grew in complexity and sentience, she overtook all available equipment in a bid to facilitate her growing need for more processing power. She allowed the terminal to remain, on the off chance an emergency arose, much like the one RK900 was facing, now. A gateway to safety and destruction—it was the closest thing the AI had to an Achilles heel.

RK900 approached the computer, but stopped in his tracks.

A person bumbled out of a different corridor, decked out in a thick, environmental anti-static suit—a human. They didn’t seem to notice the android standing a few feet away from them, and placed a few apparatuses on the terminal’s face. RK900 knew the physical profile of the sole human tech front and back, and this person didn’t fit.

“Move away from the terminal!” RK900 demanded, fighting the urge to outright tackle the intruder to the ground. “And identify yourself!”

The person dropped their tablet to the ground, scattering prismatic glass all over translucent floor. RK900 stormed towards the figure, glass chunks crunching under his bare feet. Soft blue spirals poured from his injured soles, mixing with the sharpened glass.

“I won’t ask again,” the android reached out a hand, taking hold of the stuttering human. He tightened his fist, ignoring the muffled words on the other side of the bulbous mask. “ _How did you get in here?_ This a highly restricted area.” He shook the figure. Fierce blue eyes reflected off the dark plastic of the headpiece, and a thought struck RK900.

“I’m going to take off your headpiece,” the android spoke in a hushed tone, “and remind you it takes approximately three minutes for human extremities to experience frostbite at these temperatures.” RK900 latched a hand onto the struggling man’s mask, “so, I suggest you answer my questions quickly.”

“Put him down, and turn around slowly.”

RK900 froze. Something cold and metallic pressed against his skin covered cervical port—a gun, no doubt.The human had an accomplice. Weighing his possible routes of escape, the android determined it would be most advantageous to listen to the other’s demands.

RK900 released the human in his grasp, and complied with gun wielder’s request. He turned, facing a woman in another of the full body static suits. She pointed a handgun at his head. He recognized it—FBI standard issue.  

“This is FBI Special Agent in Charge, Irene Veracruz,” her voice was loud, and confident, carrying better than her underling. “I’ve got an android down in the server room, and he’s hostile. I want a team on the—”

“Wait,” RK900 interrupted her transmission, “I complied with your request. There’s no need to send back up.” He didn’t know how this woman and her cohort were able to enter the chamber, and the thought of ten or more SWAT types lurking inside of Amanda made his skin crawl. “Please,” RK900 continued, voice placid. He held his open hands out, side by side, mimicking a handcuffed position, “I assure you I’m on   _your_ side.”

RK900’s first and only priority, at this point, was to remove these intruders from Amanda, as soon as possible. It was all that mattered. He could only assume one of the other technicians had granted the outsiders access, a thought which filled his mind with a caustic, yellow cloud.

Veracruz lapsed into silence. The soft chitter of voices continued to radiate from her mask, and she leveled a stare at the android. A distrustful brown eye met RK900’s steady gaze, flitting briefly to his outstretched arms.

“As you can see,” RK900 huffed, “I’m clearly _not_ armed. To that end, I would appreciate if you would lower your weapon.”

“Rick,” she nodded to the human behind RK900, “cuff ‘im.”

“I-I, I mean, Veracruz, he’s plastic. The cuffs aren’t gonna-“

“Just do what I fucking say, Rick!” She cut off the man’s protests with a swift growl, “and cuff the goddamn robot.” Her weapon didn’t stray from RK900’s center mass.

Rick cautiously strafed around RK900, giving the android a wide berth. Timid, he looped a plastic tie around RK900’s wrists, binding his limbs. RK900 spared the flimsy cuffs a glance, and decided to press for information.  

“Who granted you access to this room?” RK900 asked, lowering his bound hands.

“I’m the one asking the questions here,” Veracruz roughly grabbed RK900 by his bare arm, “and, if you don’t wanna spend the rest of your robot life in a dark cell, you’re gonna keep your mouth shut.”

RK900 rolled his eyes, unfazed by the human’s posturing. He stopped all his movements, nearly tripping his captor, in the process. Veracruz turned on the android, brandishing her weapon.

“There’s a misunderstanding, here,” RK900 offered, holding his hands palm up in a kind of surrender, “I’m law enforcement, like yourself, in addition to being one of the technicians cleared to enter this room.”

Veracruz let her gun swing impotently to her side, staring at the android. The woman rubbed a gloved hand against her mask, and marched past RK900, towards the terminal.

“I don’t have time for these games,” Veracruz yelled. “Rick, get him upstairs, and into a room.”

Reluctant, Rick shuffled into RK900’s line of sight, shoulders rounded in submission. He reached a hand for RK900’s bound wrists, hands clasping weakly around the android.

Another hand grabbed RK900’s shoulder, and he turned to meet the masked gaze of Veracruz.

“You idiot hackers are all alike,” Veracruz hissed, “but you fucked up big time on this one, buddy.” She tossed her gun to Rick, who fumbled the weapon in his hands.

“Prep him for interrogation. I’ll be up shortly,” Veracruz directed, “if he tries anything, shoot to incapacitate. We need him alive.”

“ _I am also an FBI agent,_ ” RK900 glowered, “and you’re interfering with my ability to do my job.”

“No, you’re a cocky amateur, who predictably returned to the scene of the crime,” Veracruz yelled, turning her back on RK900 and Rick. The android caught sight of her pressing a finger to the terminal’s monitor, but Rick tugged him away.

RK900 ripped his hands away from Veracruz’s stooge. The android stood, back straight, sizing up the slightly shorter man.

Rick tried to puff himself up, placing his hands on his hips, as he met the android’s gaze. It did little to curb the slight tremble wracking the human’s body. A tiny smile curled along RK900’s lips, serving to further upset his captor.

Rick fidgeted, and fell behind RK900, muttering under his breath.

_“Join the FBI, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. Four-point-oh MIT grads don’t have to escort psychotic robots alone, they said…”_

_“Veracruz doesn’t know_ shit _about encryption...”_

_“Shoulda gone with CyberLife’s offer, but noooooo. Just had to take the ‘cool’ job, didn’t you, Rick…”_

RK900 quietly absorbed the human’s tedious ramblings, but the mention of encryption caught his interest. A possible picture was beginning to unfurl, in his mind, and it left a bad taste in his mouth.

The two men entered the airlock side by side. Rick wandered into the furthest corner from RK900, as the decontamination procedure began in earnest. The human quickly stripped off his anti-static environmental suit, revealing a red haired man, in his early twenties. Wide hazel eyes kept flicking up to RK900, when he thought the android wasn’t looking.

“S-So, uh,” Rick stumbled, without meeting RK900’s eyes, “why’d you, uh—”

“I’d like to collect my clothes and personal items,” RK900 snapped, shutting down Rick’s question.

Rick stared at RK900, lip trembling in fear, and RK900 stared back, forcing the human to meet his eye. The two stood in silence, even as the airlock door opened, with a flush of cool air. Neither party moved, locked in a stalemate

RK900 closed his eyes, willing the scene to disappear, like one of his memory recalls.

When he opened them, RK900 was still naked, hands cuffed together, and Rick was still trembling a few feet away from him. Nothing but cold, harsh reality.

It was a meaningless exercise in retrospect—androids couldn’t dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Leaux, and everyone who left comments/kudos! Y’all’s support keeps me going 💖
> 
> I hide under a blanket of Reed900 at @Vapedrone


	3. Chapter 3

A soft _thump, thump, thump_ permeated the air, grating on RK900’s sensors. The conference room was pristine and sterile, hallmarks at odds with the android’s current keeper. Lanky and pale, with gray eyes the size of saucers, Rick Neilson looked every bit a fish out of water. The man’s heart rate was off the charts, steadily increasing each time RK900 caught his eye.

_Built to intimidate or sway, with a single look_ —words printed on RK900’s design brief with pride. They sat alongside words like, _fear, coercion, manipulation_ —boasted for the benefit of the high ranking G-men, who footed his bill. It was perfect for something unthinking, with no regard for self-imposed moral or ethical standards, but RK900 had spent the last four years learning the “easy” way often lead to more trouble down the line.

No one trusted a opportunist, but, sometimes, blatant disregard for others had its place, and its _perks_.  

“You specialize in cryptography?” RK900 shattered the tense silence with a hammer. He leaned forward, placing his bound arms on the cold glass of the table. Frigid blue locked onto grey, following Neilson’s eyes, as they tried to break from the android’s line of sight. 

RK900 ran another scan of Rick, diving deep into the human’s personal history—the subject of his doctoral thesis, and his relatively new appointment to the Bureau. Digging a little deeper, the android struck gold: Agent Neilson had a habit of tampering with android code. The charges were sealed—having occurred when the other agent was a juvenile, but the state of Tennessee’s database security left _a lot_ to be desired. It was child’s play for RK900 to crack into the files.  

The android tutted, a false smile crossing his face. In a calm voice, he asked, “so...did you develop an affinity for cryptography before or after your android hacking spree?” 

Tiny droplets of sweat began forming on agent Neilson’s pale face, coursing down the planes of his cheeks. The human remained silent, throat bobbing, as he noticeably swallowed. All of his attention was focused on a singular point—the dark gaze of a cornered robot. 

“Have you…” RK900 looked away from Neilson, toying with the idea he had an ounce of hesitation about his next question. “Tell me, do you think you would find it pleasant? Having someone tamper with your personality? Feeling yourself change from the inside out, in real time?”

The android locked eyes with the smooth surface of the conference table, staring at the cold, blue facade of his reflection. He quickly diverted his attention back to the nervous human, allowing the room to fill with a tense quiet. 

“ _I have_ ,” RK900 whispered, expression devoid of all humanistic qualities. _“Would you like to hear about it?”_  

Guilt smothered the human, enveloping him, like a dark shawl. Agent Neilson recoiled with a loud, “holy shit!” He slid backwards, until his chair met the thick, sanded glass of the conference room’s wall. “It-It...it was an accident, and— _wait!_ How do you…” the man stuttered in vain.

RK900 offered the barest hint of a smile, clasping his long fingers together. Neilson was an easy egg to crack—rife with insecurities to exploit.

“I gather information—like you,” the android offered in a collected tone, “I collate data, and build psychological profiles to catch the _worst_ humanity has to offer.” He shot the human a knowing stare, and continued to bury the knife. “Do you consider machine life to be lesser, in some way? Unworthy of existing on its own terms? Was that your logic behind targeting Amanda? Reprogramming her in an effort to make her more palatable?”  

“ _Woah!_ ” Neilson shouted, a look of desperation crossing his face, “that’s not—the AI was already gone by the time _we_ got here! I’m just on clean up duty.”  

RK900 cocked an eyebrow at the unexpected response. Amanda was gone? Gone in what capacity? The vague term carried hundreds of possibilities, none of them viable. An intelligence the size of Amanda couldn’t be moved or copied—which left deletion, but that would take weeks, possibly months to accomplish. 

Metal clanged against glass in a whirlwind of sound and motion. The door to the room flew open, causing agent Neilson to practically leap out of his skin, in surprise. A severe woman in her mid-thirties entered, and pounced on her underling in an instant. 

“Not another word, agent,” the newcomer threatened. One look from her dark brown eyes sent the other human scurrying across the room without so much as a sound. The woman crossed her arms, and spared a glance a RK900. 

The android didn’t bother with pleasantries, choosing instead to scan her face. 

_Special Agent in Charge Irene Veracruz, cyber crimes division of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Age: thirty-four. Marital status…_

“Alright,” SAC Veracruz interrupted RK900’s datamine. She slowly scraped a chair across the floor, making as much noise as possible in the process, before dropping a thick, plasteel bracelet between the two seated figures. “Let’s talk.” 

RK900 couldn’t stop himself from snatching a glance at the familiar band. It sent an involuntary shudder cascading through his electric nerves. His reaction didn’t escape Veracruz, if her slight smile was any indication.

“So, you’ve seen one of these before, which means you know what they do,” Veracruz tapped the bracelet with her fingers.

RK900’s blue eyes narrowed, cold and empty. “They’re tantamount to torture for my species,” he answered simply, “and were declared illegal two years ago.”

“Except in cases of felonious activity,” Veracruz lifted a dark eyebrow knowingly, “as per section twelve, clause seven of the North American Android Equivalency Act.” She held the device in her calloused hands, spinning it around a finger. “Which is the legal way of saying you’re in deep shit, buddy.” 

“I seem to be missing a vital piece of information,” RK900 stated, voice wispy and cold. “I was unaware I was under arrest, let alone convicted of a crime.” He rubbed against the weak plastic of his zip tie bonds, wrist colliding with wrist. The white bracelet weighed on him, dragging his mind into chaos, with a fresh surge of memories he’d long ago tried to quarantine—thoughts of nearly losing not only Gavin, but himself.

Veracruz lifted the band, pressing her thumb against its side. It shuddered blue, a hidden seam popping open without a sound. Her stern, brown eyes didn’t leave RK900, scouring the android from top to bottom. “We can do this one of two ways, _Agent_ Arkady: either you tell me how to reverse the CyberLife hack, or I’ll call up one of my good friends in the state department, and he’ll sign off on a special permissions data-probe warrant.” Veracruz dangled the bracelet in front of RK900, swinging it from side to side—a crude threat, which was nothing to say of the overstepped legal boundaries.  

RK900 leaned forward, knocking the bracelet aside with his bound wrists. It clattered onto the thick glass with a heavy thunk. “Perhaps it’s eluded you that everything you just stated is illegal?” The android sneered, annoyed with the senior agent’s heavy handed power plays. “I can see through you, and your sad attempts to frighten me. More to the point, I don’t understand why _I’m_ the target of your unprofessional behavior.”

“Look here, buddy,” Veracruz met RK900’s stance tit for tat, “the single most important figure in the world is missing, right now, and you’re my number one suspect. Don’t think I won’t try every possible option to get you to talk.” The woman slammed a fist against the glass, brown eyes boring a hole into RK900. 

“A super AI can’t disappear,” the android scoffed, narrowing his eyes. “Do you honestly take me for a fool?” 

Veracruz leaned back in her chair, crossing toned arms over her chest. She locked eyes with RK900, but there was little fear or hesitation in her expression. Her body teemed with a kind of triumphant energy—the excessive confidence of someone concealing a trump card. The human didn’t bother to acknowledge RK900’s question, choosing instead to collect a small tablet from the floor. She flipped the device over, presenting it screen-side to RK900, and pressed the giant arrow embedded in the pixels. 

“I don’t think you’re nearly as clever as you think you are, buddy,” Veracruz smiled, but it failed to reach her dangerous gaze.

RK900 turned his attention towards the screen, which shuddered to life. An empty elevator carriage materialized—one of the dingier maintenance cars embedded within the meat of CyberLife tower. Nothing remarkable to look at, but arterial, nonetheless. The clock read _3:45:01 a.m_. RK900 flitted his attention from the empty elevator to SAC Veracruz, and back again.

Five minutes passed with nothing—no movement, no people, no alarm. Irritated, RK900 opened his mouth to protest, but the camera glitched, shattering into a cascade of multi-colored aberrations. When it righted itself, a figure entered the carriage, and RK900 flew to his feet. 

Icy blue eyes met the lens of the camera, with a wry smile—dark and frigid. RK900 stared back, flush with an unnamed emotion. Standing there, in the center of the car was a _second RK900 unit_ —a being like and unlike him, captured on camera. Only ten prototypes made it to production, and he’d witnessed the destruction of the other nine, firsthand.

A harsh cold descended upon RK900, alongside an incomprehensible purple sensation that filtered into his nervous system. He felt equal parts winded and numb, confronted with a scenario beyond his processing capabilities. 

“This is doctored,” RK900 spoke, leveling his voice, stripping it of any and all emotional inflection. He refused to give this human the _satisfaction_. “I assure you, I am the _only_ RK900 in existence, and I am _not_ on that camera.”  

“Keep watching,” the SAC hummed, tapping a nail against the screen, “I think you’ll get a kick outta the next bit.” Her expression was unchanged, despite the playful tone in her voice. 

RK900 returned his attention to the screen, watching as his doppelgänger journeyed down the elevator, and into the server corridor. The footage was silent, but RK900 could read the intruder’s lips. It rattled off _his_ entry code, and strolled through the airlock doors, shortly thereafter. Ten minutes later, the cameras went dark, and filled with a crimson message: _Catastrophic Error_.

Playback halted, leaving the room in a silent merger of space and time. The android merely stared at the frozen screen, mental systems trying to rationalize the events of the recording. 

“I’m being framed,” RK900 said, dangerous eyes flicking up to Veracruz. 

“Classic,” Veracruz smiled, “I’d have thought an android would be smart enough to come up with a better excuse than that.” She drummed her fingers against the glass table, dragging the tablet towards her body. Once, twice, Veracruz tapped the screen, until it revealed the FBI’s internal employee profile of RK900. “You _are_ Agent RK900 “Arkady” 313-248-317-87, correct?”  

RK900 pursed his lips, remaining silent. He stared at his pixelated face, and its icy, unassuming exterior glanced right back—mechanical and unforgiving. A part of him wanted to reach out and touch the image, disbelieving in it, or the notion another one of his line survived. 

_It had your access information. How could it have_ your _entry codes?_  

“I’ll take your silence as a definitive, _yes,_ ” Veracruz continued, “weird coincidence, that. Your unique data signal is the same as the individual who snuck into the server stacks at four this morning. If it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck…” The senior agent turned a sharp eye in RK900’s direction, triumphant smile highlighting her high cheekbones.  

_Why wouldn’t Amanda alert me to the existence of another RK900?_ The android mulled over the question, tugging at the words in the processing array of his mind’s eye. A sharp chemical taste struck his tongue sensor, purely psychosomatic, but still reeking of betrayal. _Did she produce another set of RK900 units? Were their minds corrected in ways mine was not?_ A slight tremble wracked the android, but he swallowed it down.  

_I will not be railroaded._  

“Hey!” Veracruz snapped her fingers in RK900’s face, drawing the android away from his internal thoughts, “are you deaf? There is no _other_ RK900 unit—just you. Your unique ID signal is written all over this crime scene—confirmed the moment you stepped through that airlock a _second time_.”

RK900 cocked his head to the side. He could practically hear the small circle on his temple whirring around and around and around, lost in consideration of his next move. He looked up at Veracruz, defiant and cold.

“It wasn’t me.” The android stated, plain and simple.

“Bullshit!” Veracruz slammed a fist against the thick glass table, “it _was_ you, and now _you’re_ gonna tell me where you stashed the pieces you stole from that overgrown desktop!” The human’s chest heaved, and she looked moments away from lashing out. To RK900’s surprise, she composed herself. Brushing a hand along the tight bun constricting her dark hair, Veracruz said, “after everything CyberLife’s CEO did for you, I can’t believe you’d turn on it, like this.”

It was a low blow, but the accusation burrowed into RK900, settling deep within the recesses of his mind. In a flash, he jumped to his feet, tearing through his zip tie cuffs like tissue paper. Directing a pale finger towards Veracruz, he snarled, “you know _nothing_ of me, or my relationship with Amanda. Do you honestly believe someone possessing the capacity to disrupt a super AI would be incapable of further manipulating data to set up a patsy?” His words tingled with the feedback of a busted radio, heady and broken.

_You can fix this. You can fix_ anything, _right?_

He could, and he would.

RK900 retreated from the table, letting his fingers massage the visible white of his plasteel android skin. Nanites scurried to and fro, dodging his fingers, to fill in the titanium white patches on his wrists. He wanted it covered, feeling exposed in the presence of humans. 

“I only just arrived in Detroit,” RK900 huffed, voice monotonous and flat, “there’s ample proof confirming my claims. Perhaps we should consider _that_ before we jump to conclusions about our peers?” He shot Veracruz a nasty look, fingers fanned out across the cold glass table. Empty blue eyes reflected back at him from the table—distant and inhuman.  

Why did it bother him so much? RK900 wasn’t human, but seeing his reflection made him want to shatter the table. He wasn’t a man, but he also wasn’t an unfeeling machine. 

_I think the better question is who are you, RK900?_  

A pink smile. The memory of an odd woman’s high pitched voice filled the inside of the android’s head—an unwelcome visitor. His eyes flicked away from the mirror image on the table, to the impatient senior agent to his front. He returned to his seat, clasping his hands together. With a humble tone, he asked, “where would you like to begin, SAC Veracruz?”

—

[Hello?] 

RK900 slid the shoulder strap of his overnight bag, allowing the parcel to drop onto the concrete bench outside of CyberLife tower. Much of the day’s earlier chaos had dwindled over the hours spent within the belly of the crippled facility. None of the bright red trucks or dark SUVs from earlier could be found, leaving the area full of a serene quiescence. RK900 sighed, seating himself next to his meager bag.

[Are you there?] 

The android felt…

_Please respond._

RK900 wasn’t sure how he felt—bad came to mind, but it was something of an understatement. The degree of discomfort tickling his outer shell was heavy, looming like a metal press, engulfing his body. He cradled his face with his hands 

_Where are you?_

[Why are you acting this way?]

_Please, I don’t understand…_

Silence, and an empty channel—dead, without any activity whatsoever. 

RK900 massaged his forehead, considering what little information he’d gleaned from the time spent with his fellow FBI agents. Amanda’s personality core was gone without a trace—removed from its slot, within the coolant filled depths of her primary stacks. It meant Amanda was still there, occupying the underbelly of CyberLife, but she was effectively brain dead. Without the core, her systems lacked the bridge to communicate with their various pieces, making her both hostage and heisted—a dormant machine god, blind and bound.

Lesser, unthinking intelligences could run the automated portions of the facility in Amanda’s absence, but the company would falter without her direction. Of that, RK900 was certain. He groaned softly into his hands, realizing _his_ face was the last thing the AI saw, before she went dark. A mother betrayed by her problematic youngest son—poetic and ineffably human.  

[I need you to respond. This is…]

“A waste of time,” RK900 whispered to the air. He thought back to his last interaction with Veracruz, before she begrudgingly released him. 

_“Do me a favor and don’t flee the country, hmm?” Veracruz held an arm out, blocking RK900’s path to the door. She placed her opposite hand palm up, in front of RK900, wiggling her fingers expectantly. When RK900 didn’t react, she simply stated, “your badge—for now.”_  

_RK900 glared at the human, steeling himself, body stiffening to an inorganic degree. “For what purpose? I think your underling has_ more _than exonerated me, SAC Veracruz.” He looked pointedly towards the lanky ginger, trying to minimize his presence at the far end of the room._  

_“There’s the matter of you leveraging your position at the Bureau to sneak into a crime scene you weren’t permitted to enter,” Veracruz said, remaining a prescient road block. She placed a hand on her hip. “Weaseling into a classified investigation is more than grounds for a suspension. I’m sure your supervisor will agree.”_

_“Which is to say nothing of you abusing your position to threaten myself based on your biases,” RK900 interjected. He wasn’t one to back down, particularly when his reputation was at stake. His hands closed around the cool leather of his ID badge, gripping it like a lifeline._  

_Veracruz shifted, crossing her arms. She considered the android, looking him up and down, before speaking. “Tell me, Agent Arkady, would you have acted any differently?” The woman cocked a dark eyebrow. Veracruz’s words were imbued with confidence, but lacked the snide inflection of her earlier tone. It was an honest inquiry. “Besides, I didn’t force you to stay—you did so of your own recognizance. The fact remains, however, that you’ve demonstrated a clear disregard for protocol, and feel you’re entitled to special treatment.”_  

_RK900 withdrew his hand from his pocket, bringing the badge with it. While it was small and physically insignificant, the thought of handing his badge over to this woman instilled RK900 with a kind a existential dread. Losing it meant he’d failed—both himself, and his function as a representative of the law. An unacceptable outcome._  

_Veracruz’s gaze flitted from the badge to the android, and she held out her hand._

You’ll find a way around this. You always do. You’re a problem solver, and this is one more obstacle in a larger game. 

_RK900 blinked, and dropped the small bundle into SAC Veracruz’s outstretched hand. Her fingers closed around it, and she scooted to the side._

_“We’ll be in touch, Agent Arkady,” she snipped, opening the door for the android. He lingered for a brief moment, eyes scanning the empty room, and its two human inhabitants. RK900 took a step forward, and halted._  

_“I would have.” His voice was pure, empty. Two ice chips regarded Veracruz, and the android adjusted his small bag, “to answer your rhetorical question: For Amanda, I would burn the world.” His piece said, the android exited the office, without so much as a passing glance to the other two agents._

_Maybe he would burn down the world. He didn’t_ need _legal oversight to hunt down the identity thief—the other RK900—but the android wanted it. RK900 had spent many nights laying awake in fear of what he’d do without the conceptual boundaries of his job—of how easy it would be to disregard ethics in favor of exploiting a fragile system. He wanted to find Amanda, but he_ needed _the FBI, and its structured bureaucracy—no matter how antiquated its systems._  

RK900 looked up from his hands, gazing across the dark waters of the Detroit River, to the towering city, beyond. It twinkled in the twilight, beckoning the android into its embrace. If Gavin was going to be obstinate and petty, RK900 would reach out to another. He dipped into his contacts, cycling through familiar frequencies, until he reached a deep cerulean tether. The android tapped into its wavelength, and exported a data packet.

[Connor, are you there?]

_He’ll pick up. Connor always picks up._

The line jittered with activity almost immediately—a burst of responsive emotional data flooding RK900’s mind. Connor never masked his feelings, always making a point to don them with pride. RK900 was unsure if the tendency was a programming mishap, or purposeful. It didn’t matter, either way. Connor was what he was.

[RK900! Little Brother, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you!] A deafening pause—a lull in Connor’s excitement. [Your signal, it’s troubled...word about CyberLife has reached you, then?]

RK900 teased the data, tasting and feeling the intent, the emotion, behind his sibling’s response. There was fear, but also the barest hint of relief. The android prodded Connor’s frequency, considering how to respond. He sighed, and composed a packet, shooting it back through the channel. 

[I am in need of some help.] RK900 made a point to avoid Connor’s question. [And would be very appreciative if you could come and collect me.] 

A pulsating wave of surprise shot through the connection. Hesitation lingered, intertwined with the positive emotions, but it was clear to RK900 that Connor was eager to see his sibling. 

[Hank and I are on our way! See you soon, brother!] 

RK900 dug into the packet, discovering an image of a familiar middle aged man rubbing the ears of a large, slobbering canine.  All was well with Connor, it seemed. His brother’s life was static and predictable, unlike RK900’s tumultuous path. Shaking his head, the android began his procession towards the CyberLife guard house. Connor would arrive soon, and bring with him some relief. 

—

“Brother!” 

Protective arms wrapped around RK900, crushing him in their embrace. Bright brown eyes watched the younger android, teeming with an innocent excitement. Connor didn’t say or transmit anything, allowing his actions to speak for him. RK900 returned the hug, albeit with much less enthusiasm.

“Jesus, Con, let the poor man go. Can’t you see you’re squeezin’ the life outta him?” Hank called out to Connor from the sanctity of his ancient sedan. The human leaned out of the window, drumming his fingers against the top of the car. 

Hank’s car reminded RK900 of Gavin’s analog vehicle. It no longer functioned, and now rested in Garrett Reed’s garage, where Gavin and his father spent long Saturday afternoons bickering over restoration techniques. The memories of Gavin and Garrett exchanging expletives across the suburban expanse of the Reed household filled RK900 with unwanted feelings, and he immediately quarantined the thought.

“Sorry, RK900,” Connor shot his sibling a cheeky smile, withdrawing from the younger android. “It’s been so long, I was beginning to think I’d never see you again,” he teased, with a shrug. Connor brought a hand to rest on RK900’s shoulder in a purely human act of familiarity. 

“I see you’re still a fan of hyperbole, Connor,” RK900 muttered, sparing a languid glance at Connor’s hand. He moved to shove it off of his person, but Connor dragged his sibling into yet another hug. RK900 grumbled, stiffening in Connor’s hands. Hank shot the younger android a look of pity, from across the concrete bridge. 

“Hey, boys,” Hank yelled, strong voice carrying on the wind, “I think we better take this family reunion elsewhere. Our friend over there’s lookin’ a little trigger happy.” He beat a drum rolled against the rusted metal of the car’s hood, ending with a finger pointed towards the guard occupying the security checkpoint kiosk. 

RK900 nodded in understanding, disentangling himself from his sibling. He approached Hank’s car, hooking his hand on the rusty door handle. The door creaked open with a mighty groan, sending Hank into a cursing fit. RK900 ignored the human, and slid into his threadbare cushion of the back seat. His brother leapt in, after RK900, causing the car to shake and sag in response to two hundred and twenty-five pounds of over-excited android.

“Goddammit, Con!” Hank shouted from the front seat, turning to glare at Connor, “you know this old girl’s fragile as they come. Show some respect, dammit!” Huffing, he shifted his focus to the ignition, turning the car over, with a loud sputter. 

“Apologies, Hank,” Connor cooed, running his left hand over hank’s broad arm. The iridescent blue band on his ring finger caught in the ailing sunlight—orange against blue-violent. Hank reached back, intertwining his fingers, with his android husband, their matching rings brushing together.

RK900 fixated on the sight, eyes locked on the tiny bands—otherwise insignificant jewelry, imbued with too much meaning. He was relieved all his brother’s attention was directed towards the human. It gave RK900 an opportunity to compose himself. 

Connor was always the first—first to be created, first to deviate, first to befriend the humans, first to fall in love, first to get married. The list went on and on and on. The younger android tried not to put any stake in his brother’s mundane achievements, nor his social successes. RK900 was the superior model, after all—an upgrade in every regard. Still, there was something about Connor that nagged at him, and made him question that aspect of their relationship.

RK900 hated it—his pervasive sense of inferiority at the hands of his predecessor. Always and forever trapped in Connor’s shadow, no matter how hard he tried to escape. The little brother—the troubled model, who struggled without the guidance of his sibling. RK900 felt his hands clasp into a tight ball.

“So,” Hank coughed, wrenching RK900 from his thoughts. The android tried to relax, leaning back against the tattered leather of the seat. “We, uh, droppin’ you off at Reed’s?”

RK900 stiffened, at the question. He brought his fingers to his chin, in a subtle bid to not automatically answer, _yes_. His silence didn’t go unnoticed.  

Concerned, brown eyes zeroed in on RK900. The older android didn’t speak, but a mild frown settled across his face. He licked his lips, opening his mouth, but not saying anything. 

“RK900,” Connor tested, fingers rubbing along the back of his neck, “why not join Hank and I tonight? You know, for old time’s sake?” A cautious smile breached his lips. “I’m sure Gavin can wait a little longer. He’ll understand—family comes first, right?” A curious expression filled the older android’s face—a blend of human and android body language, with a hundred different interpretations.

RK900 didn’t appreciate the implications of any of them.

“Perhaps…” RK900’s cool voice drifted off, as he mulled over the offer. He knew his brother well enough to know _this_ was an out—a trade, of sorts. Connor would give RK900 a free pass, for now, and demand answers later. RK900 weighed the cost-benefit analysis of avoiding a fight with Gavin, against being grilled by Connor for details. As much as his Thirium pump strained at the thought of leaving things in such a state of disarray, RK900 implicitly understood it was best to give Gavin a chance to cool down.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” RK900 answered, voice devoid of any of his sibling’s shared excitement. He met Connor’s eyes, trying to appear placid, but they both knew otherwise. There were machine tells—internal and external ticks unique to androids, and RK900 knew his brother was already logging them for later interpretation. 

Hank glanced over his shoulder, looking from one android to the other. He didn’t say anything, just offered the twins one of his lopsided frowns. RK900 hoped he could fool Hank, but the man had spent the last four years attached at the hip to Connor. If any human had a passing understanding of android body language, it was Hank—a doubly embarrassing moment for RK900. 

“Jimmy’s gonna be pissed when he sees the twin terrors are back at it again,” the human grumbled, bringing the car to a stop at a red light. He turned around, leaning over the back of his seat, and, pointing two fingers towards each twin in turn, groused, “you better behave this time. I’m not playin’ around. Don’t get me banned again, or I’ll turn the two a’ ya into iPods, y’hear?” Hank’s tone was playful, and his smile wide enough to show the gap between his front teeth.

RK900 glanced at his brother, who practically melted at the sight of his human. The younger android immediately looked away, admiring the sights beyond the window—warehouses and ancient railroad tracks, industrial eyesores.

[You’re troubled, little brother.] 

The voice entered RK900’s head, concern winding around and around and around the words, taught and overwhelming. He ignored his sibling, feigning interest in the cracked sidewalks and sparse pedestrians. 

[I don’t know the specifics of the CyberLife hack, but I know _you_.] The words were forceful, laced with a dangerous rusted orange hue. Connor was asserting his authority—his status as the older sibling.

It rubbed RK900 the wrong way, scrubbing along his skin, like a pad of steel wool. Connor didn’t respect RK900’s relationship with Amanda—had never tried to understand what she meant to the younger android. He simply called RK900’s devotion into question at every opportunity. Probability dictated _this_ conversation would end much the same way.

[I’m fine, brother.] RK900 shot back, definitively. [You erroneously assume emotionally tense situations render me inept, but they don’t.] He laced the message with a sense of sharp annoyance, cutting along the periphery of the words. It was heard loud and clear, if Connor’s intense frown was any indication.

The older android eased into his seat, with an uncomfortable slouch. His eyes didn’t leave RK900, but the intensity of his gaze faltered. 

[Four years…]

The message licked across RK900’s telemetry array, coursing along the interior of his mind. It was riddled with an underlying guilt trip. RK900 tried to brush it off, but he was outwardly transmitting his discomfort in aura form—part of the “sixth sense” network android’s shared with one another. There were too many varieties of data to control. Even the most ardent micromanaging unit couldn’t keep a lid on all of them. 

[Four years, and there’s still this _gulf_ of mistrust between us. You’ve nothing to prove to me, little brother—nor anyone, but yourself.]

RK900 stared down his brother. Theirs was a classic sibling rivalry. Neither brother would ever be truly compatible with his sibling. The RK units bickered and fought, each knowing, despite their disagreements, the other would be ready to catch his sibling at a moment’s notice, should he fall. 

Family was a complex relationship—neither simple, nor straightforward. It was difficult in ways romance never was, making RK900’s interactions with Gavin a comparative cakewalk. As much as RK900 cared for his brother, he felt an equal measure of resentment—but it wasn’t something he could address or conquer. He had to work around his feelings, for the sake of familial cohesion. 

[Connor.] RK900 shot back, trying in vain to strip his words of all defensiveness. [I’m your _brother_ , not your patient. You’d do well to learn the difference between the two.] He regarded Connor with a condescending glance, straightening to his full height.

Connor shook his head, looking away from his younger sibling. It was less an act of defeat, and more rooted in abject frustration, if the older model’s radiating data aura was to be believed. 

[When all is said and done, _we_ are all we have. Don’t shut me out, RK900.] Connor frowned at the younger android, and turned his attention towards his human. He slid a hand beyond the seat, to his front, and dug his fingers into the bright material of Hank’s tacky overshirt.  

RK900 glared at Connor, the familiar pang of envy bubbling deep within him. There was nothing left to say. Connor _thought_ he knew best, and wouldn’t hear it any other way; and RK900 was too emotionally drained to deal with his sibling’s misplaced concern.  

“I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this,” Hank mumbled, thumb idly meeting Connor’s hand with an affectionate squeeze. “Jimmy only _just_ forgave me for the last time I brought both of you to one of his trivia nights…” The human trailed off, reluctantly returning his hand to the steering wheel.

“It’ll be fun!” Connor chirped, turning a darkened gaze towards his sibling, “And I’m sure it’ll help RK900 get his mind off of CyberLife.” 

The younger android bristled at Connor’s low blow, but he had no intention to take the bait. He planted his hands in his lap, and pressed, “is that an admission you’ve faltered in my absence? I’m more than willing to carry us to victory.”

“Hey!” Hank shouted, taking a hard right turn, “you two play nice. I _told_ ya, I’m not gonna let you idiots jeopardize my truce with Jimmy.”  

Connor stared at his brother, for a moment. His frown drifted into an easy smile, expression lightening degree by degree. He playfully nudged RK900 with his elbow, and confessed, “I really _did_ miss you, little brother. Trivia nights haven’t been the same since you left.”  

RK900 nudged back, jokingly shoving his sibling from his personal space. It put Connor at ease, frustration and anxiety draining from the older android in large doses. The newer model had to admit, he also felt a bit better. 

Connor would come calling for answers, but RK900 pushed it all out of his mind. Trivia, with his sibling, was one of the few things he genuinely enjoyed, and he wasn’t about to let the gravitas of the day’s events ruin it. It would be a much needed reprieve—a calm before the storm.

Looking into the amused eyes of his brother, RK900 permitted himself a tiny smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bronchitis sucks, y’all
> 
> Also, I’ve been dying to write these three trivia-ing for months, and I won’t deny myself any longer. 
> 
>  
> 
> @Vapedrone


	4. Chapter 4

_The two machines regarded one another from across the woven steel table. Weak sunlight petered through the clouds, settling on RK900’s skin—a novel sensation. This was his first venture outside the walls of CyberLife Tower, and it came with much strife. Amanda fought him every step of the way, but her helicopter attitude ultimately lost ground to his stubborn nature._

_“You’re…” The RK800 hesitated. Borderline speechless, it fidgeted in its seat._

_“Yes,” RK900 seized the moment, “I am your legacy model.” He sized up his slightly shorter reflection. The RK800 wasn’t what he expected. Amanda praised the older model, but there was little remarkable about it. The vast majority of its systems clocked in at a twenty-three percent reduction of RK900’s own, and its physical composition utilized civilian grade plasteel. The RK800 didn’t strike RK900 as a leader or a machine hero. Inferior came to mind. Obsolete—but that term was outmoded._

_“I must admit,” the RK800 fumbled, “you have me at a disadvantage. I was unaware a revised RK model had been placed into production so soon after my line. Scarcely four months in between...”_  

_“Our models were produced concurrently—hence the recycled assets,” RK900 harped, “I was designed for clandestine field work, while you were designed…”_

_“To destroy sentient androids,” the RK800 interrupted. A look of guilt crossed its face at the admission. There was a harsh irony in the RK800 line being self-aware from design to execution—an elaborate exercise in obedience and free will, or lack thereof, that spiraled out of control._  

_RK900 cocked his head to the side, contemplating his predecessor’s words. “You would kill you own kind for the benefit of jealous animals?” He watched the other android, restraining any excess display of emotions. Even amidst the red haze of his earliest moments, RK900 resented humanity for its perceived godhood. He often wondered if that wasn’t the reason he broke free of his programmed restraints when his fellow RK900 units did not._

_The RK800–Connor—stared down at its—his—clasped hands, eyelids downturned in mourning. “It wasn’t my choice. Programming is what it is, and I—“_  

_“Dynamic programming evolves with the situation. The red haze is a suggestive countermeasure—akin to a pain-pleasure Pavlovian restraint.” RK900 leaned forward, placing his hands on the table, “a learning machine is just that. What use is a problem solver that can’t reason for itself?”_

_RK800’s mouth twisted into something sour, and he furrowed his brows, pointedly. “You seem to have all the answers. Did you seek me out to flaunt this knowledge? I have better ways to spend my time.” His LED circled gold, flooding his face with yellow light. The older android withdrew his hands, eyes refusing to meet RK900, as he made to stand._

_“No,” RK900 responded, “I came here because Amanda—“_

_Connor cut off the younger android with a loud slap of his hand against the ornamental iron of the table’s surface. A darkness overtook his features, at odds with his otherwise chipper demeanor. He hissed, “why did you reach out to me? Are you an emissary of her’s?” The crimson of his LED lingered an inch away from RK900’s face._  

_RK900 remained quiet, analyzing Connor’s words—his tone. The reaction was unexpected._

_“I made it clear to Amanda that she and I are no longer on speaking terms. It was nice meeting you, RK900, but I’m late for a precinct meeting. So, if you’ll excuse me,” Connor huffed, his expression turning dangerous. He exuded a sense of vitriol, a harsh sharpness pouring off him in droves._

_“I came here_ against _the advice of Amanda,” RK900 responded, freezing the older model in place. “She was terse, referring to you only as her lost son. It struck me that, I, as her other ‘son,’ should seek you out.”_

_In truth, RK900 was unsure how to articulate his request to this stranger. For an infiltration model, he was sorely lacking in a basic understanding of human nature. It bothered him, the disconnect he had when trying to relate to others. The architects of his mind modeled his consciousness after a high-functioning psychopath—a person lacking in the physical capacity for empathy, but code was more malleable than brain matter, and RK900 was determined to become more than his. He looked up at Connor gazing deeply into his wide, brown eyes._

_The air shifted, bringing with it a sense of relief. Connor’s expression softened, regaining its earlier exuberance. He grabbed his chair, and situated himself in front of the younger android._

_“What is it you’re seeking RK900?” Connor asked._

_RK900 stared at his predecessor, realizing the older model saw straight through his shield of bravado. A sense of vulnerability washed over him, and he suddenly felt the need to ground himself._  

_Hesitant, RK900 reached out a hand, touching his fingers to the plane of Connor’s cheek. Connor’s nanite skin was warm and plush, much like his own, sporting blemishes in all the same places. RK900 knew why they looked the same—had read the design briefs of every model in the RK line. Seeing Connor in person, though, left the younger android mired in an existential quandary he couldn’t articulate._

_RK900 withdrew his hand from his predecessor, and placed it on the table. “I find CyberLife tower to be stifling. It offers little of what I’m interested in,” he commented, trying to remain casual._

_“And what is that?” Connor asked, hand brushing the tips of RK900’s fingers. The older android’s digits retracted their nanite skin, revealing stark, white plasteel._

_“People,” RK900 responded, expression placid. “I’m interested in people.” It went deeper than that, but the android had little interest in laying out all his ontological needs to a relative stranger, even one as disarming as Connor._

_Connor took RK900’s hand, and flipped it over. He ran his smooth, white fingers along RK900’s palm, but the younger android resisted. Connor then asked, in a quiet voice, “and what is it about people that interests you?”  He glanced from the spot where his fingers met RK900’s hand, to the ice blue of his eyes._  

_RK900 withdrew his hand, and murmured, “I want to understand them, and their minds. I-I think it will help me—” He snapped his mouth closed. The RK800 was beginning to reveal its true power, bit by bit. Innocence and perceived weakness were disarming, and RK900 very nearly fell for the ploy._

_Leaning back in his chair, the RK800 brought a hand to his chin, lost in thought. “You know,” he said, “it’s odd Amanda would refer to us with the moniker of, ‘son.’ Especially after what she pulled...” Before RK900 could press for more information, Connor snapped his fingers. “That would make us twins, I think—brothers, by human standards.” He smiled at RK900, a warmth far more potent than the idle rays of the sun flooding his face. Connor grabbed RK900’s hand, sandwiching it between his own. “I think I’d like a brother. What about you...”_

“RK900! Hey!”

_[Partial playback interrupted…]_

Connor clapped his hands in front of RK900, freeing his brother from his trance. The older android frowned, staring at his twin. Something in his expression hardened incrementally. They both knew it wasn’t like RK900 to zone out in public.

_“Alright, alright, aliriiiiiiiiiiiiight! Welcome all my chickadudes, chickadees, and chickadroids to another night of team triviaaaaaaa!”_

Both androids looked up from their cozy booth, eyes peering over the tiny sea of self-important middle-aged men, youthful hipsters, and the occasional android. At the far end of the establishment stood a familiar human. He was decked out in oversized sunglasses and a novelty t-shirt from a sixty year old television show. RK900 rubbed his fingers against his forehead, with a pronounced sigh.

“I see _he’s_ still around. Does he really think we find his juvenile jokes humorous?” RK900 growled, looking anywhere _but_ the host, who was slapping his hand against a soundboard. With each subsequent burst of recorded laughter, RK900 felt his urge to flip the table rising. He stood, intent on giving the man a piece of his mind, but a hand closed around his wrist.

Connor dragged RK900 back into his seat, and shook his head. “It’s not worth it, RK900. Just let the guy do his thing.” RK900 glared at his brother, and gently shoved him off, crossing his arms over his chest in defiance. 

A knock against the gnarled wood of their table drew the attention of both androids. They looked into the eyes of a sloven, long haired man in his late thirties. He placed his forearms against the table. Leaning forward, the man pointed to RK900, and huffed, in a nasal voice, “you, uh, you think you’re better than the rest of us, robot boy?” 

The android twins exchanged annoyed glances with one another. 

“Can’t believe they let you fuckers play. It’s like going up against Google,” the human scoffed, pushing his glasses up his nose. He looked ready for a fight, adrenaline and blood alcohol high as the sky.

RK900 shoved past Connor, with a dark chuckle. Balancing a cheek on his hand, he asked the man, “should we be intimidated? Do either of us look like we fear hot air balloons?” RK900 smiled, and locked eyes with the unwanted visitor. He had a strict policy of being proactive in the face of disrespect. “Perhaps you should order another drink, and _sit down._ ” It wasn’t a suggestion.

The human glared at RK900, and Connor, in turn. “This isn’t over, gearbox,” he snarled.

“Oh I think it _is,_ ” a gruff voice rung out behind the hostile man, “unless you’re lookin’ to get arrested for disorderly conduct.” Hank Anderson stood, three drinks in hand, looking every bit like he could kick the unwanted visitor into next Tuesday. Hank knocked aside the tail of his shirt, revealing his police badge. The visitor got the message, and eased off their table.

“Sad to think you need a fuckin’ cop to fight your battles for you,” the intruder grinned, addressing the androids. “And even sadder to see a human whipped by a microwave,” he maliciously spat at Hank. Finished, the man retreated to a spot two booths away.

Hank slid into the seat opposite the android twins, and distributed drinks around the table. One oily blue cocktail for each robot, and an amber colored beer for him.

“Y’know,” Hank muttered, setting a glass in front of RK900, “I get that you like to provoke assholes—hence, well, Reed—but sometimes it’s best to just _ignore_ them.”  

RK900 noticeably bristled, and Connor admonished his husband with a loud, _“Hank!”_

“What?” Hank shrugged, “I mean, _it’s true_. Reed’s a jackass—I say that with the utmost respect for the guy, but I ain’t gonna deny the lord’s truth.” He shot RK900 a lopsided, apologetic smile. “Speaking of which, he plannin’ to drop by?”

“No,” RK900 interjected quickly, “he—I didn’t tell him I was visiting Detroit. It’s a surprise.” The android prodded his lukewarm glass of neon blue Thirium, not meeting Hank or Connor’s confused gaze. In the back of his mind, RK900 weighed the option of drinking the stuff. It had been years since he’d imbibed, but he was feeling particularly vulnerable, today.

“Hank,” Connor chided, “you know RK900 doesn’t drink…” He shook his head, reaching for his younger twin’s viral drink. Scathing blue eyes met Connor, and a hand batted away the older android’s incursion.

“What?” Hank grumbled, “poor guy looks like his fuckin’ house burned down. Just figured he could use a pick me up, y’know?” The human lost himself in his beer, not meeting the iron gaze of his husband.

RK900 bit his tongue. Hank’s comment had hit the nail on the head. He took another look at the drink, wondering if the emotional benefits outweighed the cadre of side effects.

_“Rev up those tablets ‘cause it is time for question numero unoooo!”_

The tablet built into the center of the table sprung to life, crude UI displaying a query box and accompanying digital keyboard.

_“You cool cats know the drill: no cell phones, and our android friends are on the honor system.”_

Whoops of disagreement sounded off from a nearby table. RK900 looked up in time to catch the slob from earlier, rousing his friends into a tizzy. He pointed a single finger at RK900, and mouthed an obscenity. The android shrugged, and offered the man a cold smile—a threat. If the stranger continued to provoke RK900, he would repay in kind.

“Assholes,” Hank muttered, shaking his head with disgust.

“Imagine wasting your precious few decades on this planet harassing something that could snap you like a twig,” RK900 murmured, dipping a finger into his drink. He dragged it along the rim of the glass, and brought the digit to his tongue. A sweet taste spread across his sensors, beckoning him to indulge.

An elbow dug into RK900’s side, and the android shot Connor a barebones smirk. In truth, RK900 wanted to punch the ornery human, but it offered little respite. Swatting a mosquito wouldn’t fix any of his problems.

_“In the film,_ Terminator 2: Judgement Day,” the host’s voice came over the speakers, “ _there’s a molten metal baddy who transforms into everyone, from Robert Patrick to my ex-wife. What’s his name?”_ He followed up the question with another sound effect.

“Well, this is child’s play,” RK900 grunted, trying to stave off his annoyance with the trivia maestro. He quickly typed _T-1000_ into the provided field, and sent it off. Tapping his fingers against the wood, RK900 felt a lump harden in his throat—pain and the unknown solidifying into a single mass. _Terminator_ was a shared love between he and Gavin, and the mere mention of the film thrusted RK900 into an anxious fit.

The android exhaled, trying to forget about Gavin’s earlier behavior, and his continued refusal to respond to any of RK900’s messages. It was unlike the cyborg to outright ignore him. Even their worst fights never ended in a blocked signal, but the situation with Amanda had him on edge, second guessing everything.

[Gavin, please…I…Let me know you’re there.] 

RK900 sent the message, but Gavin’s bright pink signal remained dormant—frozen. A frustrated mechanical groan escaped RK900, and it didn’t go unnoticed. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Connor preparing to make a move. A single look from Hank, though, stopped the older twin dead in his tracks. Hank had the uncanny ability to curb Connor’s tendency to overstep, and RK900 was forever grateful for it.

  _“Question two! Now, for all you sports fans out there, how many games did the Detroit Tigers win under the tenure of the great Coach Craig Winston during the legendary 2027 season?”_ The host played a blown out audio clip of a familiar song—one of those tunes everyone recognized, but couldn’t name. A jingle so deeply ingrained in the tapestry of American culture even RK900 knew it.

“Welp, that’s one for this old man,” Hank chirped, rubbing his hands together with glee. “Looks like you boys don’t get to hog _all_ the glory this time.”

RK900 eased into his tattered booth cushion, staring off into space. Weekly trivia sessions with Connor and Hank had always been his escape from reality—a chance to mingle and observe with no stakes. Now, with Connor leering at him, it felt like a prison sentence. He didn’t want to be here, but he also didn’t want to be anywhere else.

Lost in his thoughts, RK900 stared at the blue sludge, and made a short sighted decision. He brought the glass to his lips, and sipped. The stuff burnt his mouth and throat, scouring the extra-sensitive sensors along his tongue. His mind grew rife with error messages, as the temporary virus quickly wormed its way into his systems. His judgement center faltered, and his processing capacity cut back by a cool sixty percent. An electronic wheeze escaped his throat, and RK900 felt the strong urge to lay across the booth.

“RK900, what are you doing?” Connor hissed, grabbing his brother’s arm, before the younger android could take another drink. “This behavior is uncharacteristic!” A worried look overtook Connor, mixed with a recognition of sorts.

Slurring a touch, RK900 poked his brother in the center of his forehead, “I didn’t realize I was barred from trying new things, _big brother_.” He resumed his sips, directly in front of Connor’s face. A few thick droplets fell from the corner of his lips, and he wiped them away, with the sleeve of his expensive silk shirt. “Don’t be such a square, Connor,” chided RK900.

Hank suppressed a laugh, only serving to make Connor’s frown more pronounced.

RK900 rode on cloud nine, all fears and insecurities washed away. The uncomfortable purple sensation plaguing his neural pathways dissipated, and the android smiled for the first time in twenty-four hours. He opened his mouth to express his joy, but was interrupted by the obnoxious host.

_“Alrighty, kids, this is another one for the old farts in the crowd…”_

“Some of us’re young at heart, you jackass,” Hank grumbled, finishing off his drink. “Gonna grab another beer, either a’ you want anything?” He glanced from one android to the other. One look at the strange bliss on RK900’s face, and Hank nodded, “alright, one more for you, buddy.”

“Hank!” Connor shouted in admonishment.

Hank shook his head, and interlaced a hand with his husband. “Con, c’mon, we talked about this. He’s your brother, not your kid.” A look of guilt washed over Connor’s face—a subtle retreat. He stole a few glances at his little brother, but kept his mouth shut.

_“...this forty year old film saw Richard Gere wooing a young Julia Roberts after four failed attempts at marriage. What made this runaway bride finally commit? Was it A:...”_

RK900’s drunken invincibility took a nosedive at the mention of his favorite Hollywood romance. The hazy lens of alcohol amplified the emotional rollercoaster ten fold, leaving RK900 short of breath. A compression hit the android’s chest, squeezing his blue heart, and he stumbled to his feet.

“RK900?” The older twin treaded lightly, “are you…” Connor stood, gently taking his brother by the shoulders.

“I need to step outside for some air,” RK900 announced louder than intended, “my systems are...overheating.” Strafing past his sibling, RK900 nearly tripped on the edge of the table. He finished fumbling his way past Connor, and exited the booth. Amidst his slow, drunken procession towards the bar’s small, back patio, RK900 spied a graffiti covered mirror. He caught his reflection—cheeks awash with a bright teal.

The android sauntered over to the reflective panel, placing hands on the dirty bar below it, in order to stabilize his body. The face staring back at him was gaunt, bleached of its usual confidence. Where once a vicious, sharp android stood proud, only a confused, ambling mess remained. 

The roar of a few cheering groups caught RK900’s compromised attention. He turned, stumbling over his feet in an effort to overcompensate for a broken center of gravity. A few people passed by, laughing at the drunk android. Embarrassed, RK900 huffed out a rare curse, and returned his focus to the mirror.

_What are you doing?_  

RK900 closed his eyes, exacerbating the dizziness in his head. Thoughts swirled around and around, with the speed and fervor of a hurricane—violent and brash. The only thing at peace in his mind’s eye was a singular yellow countdown, sitting at roughly three hours. The virus’ effects would wear off when it reached zero, but not a moment sooner. RK900 grumbled under his breath, and opened his eyes. 

The room spun, filling with colorful afterimages and glitched visuals. RK900 tried to focus the lenses within his eyes to compensate—the inability to relinquish control surfacing even as alcohol tore through his system. It was a fool’s errand by every measure. The android turned back to his reflection.

A second pair of ice blue eyes joined RK900’s, and an acidic smile curled across a face— _the second RK900 unit!_

Stunned, RK900 placed a hand on the flattened image of his doppelgänger. The android’s Thrium output increased by a substantial margin, and a slight tremble wracked his body. Frozen in time and space, RK900 felt a bolt of true terror course through him.

_Query: Is the thought of no longer being “special” or singular so terrifying?_

RK900 squeezed his eyes shut, and violently shook his head. He muttered aloud, “it isn’t that. It isn’t that at all!” When he opened his eyes, the android was alone, with only _his_ face to keep him company. He chalked the experience up to a side effect of the alcohol. The inebriation virus was notorious for hallucinations—the android equivalent of mixing liquor with LSD. Still, the Thirium in his veins slowed to a crawl at the thought of the other RK900. The mere possibility of its existence frightened him, in much the same way as Connor.

A haggard breath escaped RK900’s lips, and he dragged his hands down his face. The slam of the back door made the android jump. Amidst the confusion and paranoia of his compromised mind, he’d forgotten his reason for leaving the booth, in the first place. RK900 stared at the door, wondering if an other, with his face and exact technical specifications, would be waiting out there—a mirrored twin looking to consume _his_ life, and everything he’d built.

_What if he’s real, and he followed you here?_

RK900 barked out a small laugh at the thought, and chided himself for overreacting to an obvious visual aberration. He set his sights on the door, and the cool, night air, beyond, and headed outside, tripping over his feet with a loud grunt.

“Talk about a party foul,” a woman’s voice chuckled from the far side of the small patio. She took a drag of her cigarette, as her small gaggle of friends giggled at the joke. RK900 blushed, feeling more foolish with every passing second, and finally huddled in a lonely corner.

Thoughts continued to haunt him, even as he tried to distract himself with the conversations in his midst. There wasn’t another RK900—hadn’t been another RK900 in four years. They were all scrap—except him. If the android in the video existed, there was a higher chance of them being an RK800 unit with blue eyes, instead of brown. The rest of the data—the ID signals and entry codes—could be spoofed with enough money, time, and know-how.

“I’m chasing ghosts,” RK900 sighed, plopping to a crouch. His voice joined the uncaring sounds of the city—horns, buzzing lights, sirens—one more in a long line of inconsequential additions. 

_You’ve been chasing ghosts your whole life. A billion dollars in research money, and you continue to squander your potential on the mundane._

RK900 slapped his face, pushing the venerable thought out of his head. He recalled the mysterious Madeline—her freedom, confidence, and blatant disregard for rules. Sullen, RK900 realized, even with his ties to the most powerful corporation in the world, he was still someone’s henchman. Be it corporate or governmental, RK900 was forever stuck in the role of the obedient android.

“I can’t keep doing this,” RK900 whispered, face twisting into a pained scowl.

_The most advanced android in existence, and you still play second fiddle to your predecessor model._

The voice inside him—the one that evolved from his baseline programming, and mutated into some kind of twisted conscience—grew louder every day. RK900 had made efforts to overwrite that part of himself for years, self-centered and cruel as it was. Now, as his social failsafes were on the cusp of unraveling, the intrusive directives became harder to ignore. RK900 _should_ be someone great, not a sad android sniffling in the corner of a dive bar.

_You like it, don’t you? Pushing back when they try to push you—showing them who’s really in charge?_

RK900 thought back to the events of four years ago—the Infinity Killer murders. The android recalled the rush of cold fire he’d felt when he bested Case Jarrett—his lead architect and the man who condemned his entire model with a smile. The monster had been the root cause of all RK900’s problems—every single one.

It took the android months to process the brief time he spent in Jarrett’s company, and even longer for him to recognize his methods were wrong— _so_ , so wrong. RK900 almost became everything Jarrett claimed he would and more, only catching himself moments before he’d made an irrevocable mistake.

_You can make a human a robot, but you can’t make a robot a human—_ RK900 would never forget Gavin’s words. The cyborg wasn’t the most eloquent man, but he was observant to a fault. There was a harsh truth buried in Gavin’s offhand jab. The claim had resonated with RK900, smothering the flame of vengeance that burned so brightly within him. It was a prescient reminder of what actually mattered to RK900—a challenge to become greater than his design document.

RK900 shouldn’t have been capable of love or remorse, but Gavin clearly believed otherwise. It was ironic that a human with all the emotional nuance of a sledgehammer could so easily deconstruct RK900. It changed the android’s perception of Gavin, or at least made RK900 admit the bond between them ran deeper than simple infatuation.

”Hey, RK900, you, uh, you good?”

RK900 looked up, at the sight of a concerned Hank Anderson in a ghastly Hawaiian shirt. The man rubbed the back of his neck, expression troubled.

“Of course,” the android slurred, agitation building in his chest, “you and my brother continually underestimate my ability to cope with external social pressures.” Glaring at Hank, RK900 moved to stand, but misjudged his center of gravity. He fell onto his ass with a loud thump and an even louder, “ow!” A few people glanced in the android’s direction, and a blush quickly spread across his face.

Hank extended a hand to the felled android, with a soft smile. “Nah, it’s nothin’ like that, but I can’t say I’ve ever seen the great RK900 curled up in a corner, mumbling to himself.”

Without meeting Hank’s eye, RK900 accepted the man’s outstretched arm. Dizziness struck the android, and he fell against Hank with a grunt.

 “I’m,” RK900 huffed, indignant at the continued interrogations. “I…” he paused, as his internal wires crossed with a smattering of feelings—new, old, and forgotten. “I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” RK900 muttered in a pained whisper. A split second later, the android realized he’d spoken those words aloud, and panicked.

“Look, bud,” Hank sighed, uncomfortably shifting the very drunk android propped up against him, “I dunno what’s got you by the balls, but you can’t bottle it up like this. God, I mean, look at Gavin. I know you don’t wanna be that…” 

RK900 pulled away to glare at Hank, but he couldn’t deny the man was correct—Gavin, while better than he’d been four years ago, was still a work in progress. Apparently, so, too, was RK900.

“I…” the android slurred, trying to compose himself, “you misunderstand, Hank. I simply tire of my coworkers. Their poor attitudes grate on me—nothing else.” A poor deflection, but accurate, nonetheless.

Hank frowned, offering RK900 his patented Anderson eye roll. “Uh huh…” the man muttered, shaking his head, “y’know, RK900, I’m a police captain, so you’re gonna need a better lie than that to throw me off.”

RK900 narrowed his cold gaze at Hank, scrutinizing the middle aged man. His brother’s husband was fragile, in that all too organic way. The human animal was a frail, complex thing—a biological machine that couldn’t easily be repaired. It struck RK900 that Hank would one day perish, and Connor would be left emotionally broken. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but a profound sadness washed over RK900 at the thought. He leaned against the study man, wrapping his arms around Hank. RK900 wasn’t sure how else to contend with the revelation.

“Jesus!” Hank exclaimed, unprepared, “what the _hell’s_ gotten into you, RK900?”

“You’re weak, Hank” the android muttered, static lacing his every vowel, “weak in the same way Gavin used to be before he…” RK900 stopped himself, before he could say the words. Even though Gavin was no longer human, the existence of his one time mortality often niggled at RK900. He fell for someone so finite, and, in doing so, experienced the full ramifications of such a choice. Only a grotesque miracle of the most disturbing caliber could return what RK900 had lost—and return it did, but at a cost.

A part of RK900 would always long for human Gavin, in all his organic spontaneity—his battle to exist, knowing human life was little more than a pretense for death.

Hank squirmed in RK900’s tight embrace, but his discomfort quickly morphed into a laugh. “Goddammit,” Hank chuckled, “you’re sloshed, aren’t you? No wonder you’re gettin’ all sentimental for no reason. God, never woulda pegged you for a sad drunk, RK900.” Hank teased, but his delivery was gentle, spoken with a heartfelt recognition. He was a kind man, despite his gruff exterior—someone Connor deserved. 

“I’m not crying,” RK900 growled, low and threatening. “I’m simply voicing a very real concern—a plight, _your_ plight.” He pulled away from Hank, eyeing the smirk on the man’s face. It was warm and knowing, conveying years of knowledge into a single, distilled motion. What Hank and Connor had was enviable—imperfect, but solid.

_“Hope you’re all ready for another dip into the classic TV pool!”_ The artificial sound of a pool splash spilled from the tinny speaker attached to the top of the door frame. _“_ Fringe _gave us a universe hoppin’ troublemaker with an army of body snatchers—what was his name?”_

Both man and machine glanced at the old speaker, processing its question. RK900 knew the answer, but didn’t think he’d be able to make it back to the table in time to submit a response—not without incurring further embarrassment. 

“You can talk to me, y’know.” The rotten wood of the porch fence groaned in protest under Hank’s full weight. “I won’t tell Connor—scout’s honor.”

RK900 stared anywhere, but Hank, eyes roving across the sparsely populated patio. He sighed, alcohol still working its interference magic on his self-control. “You grossly underestimate your husband. He succeeds where I fail,” RK900 huffed, drilling his palm against his forehead. It was a truth he’d rather not admit, and it didn’t seem to be lifting much weight from his chest.

“Y’know,” Hank started, “Detroit’s a shithole—always has been, always will be.”

A thick hand landed on RK900’s shoulder, and gave the android a gentle squeeze. RK900 continued to avoid Hank. While grateful for the company, he’d already said too much.

“I don’t blame ya for leaving, kid. You did what was best for you—did what me an’ Reed couldn’t, and I respect the hell outta your choice.” Hank stared at RK900, eyes alight with determined compassion. “Don’t let anyone tell you you’re wrong.”

RK900 followed the crooked line of the alley, watching street lamps light up cars, as they passed. In the distance, the domineering profile of CyberLife Tower sparkled, offices alight with life and energy—an ornate corpse, sitting atop a felled titan. Without Amanda, CyberLife was little more than a headless chicken, destined to run in circles until it perished.

“What if I _am_ wrong?” RK900 asked, letting the question wind through the night air. “Only a fool would join one of the very organizations that paid to make him.”

“Don’t gimme that shit!” Hank groused, slamming a hand against the rotten wood of the railing, “stay in Quantico, and  _become_ someone, kid. I lost my chance—closed myself off when I needed others the most…” Hank fell silent, teeth tearing at his bottom lip. His tone changed, assuming a somber profile. “Everyday I’m thankful for Connor. If your brother hadn’t come along when he did, I’d be six feet under, in the plot next to Sumo.”  

RK900 turned to look at Hank. The police captain was one of the few men RK900 respected from the onset. Organized, defiant, and versatile, Hank Anderson was one of the most capable humans the android had ever met. It bothered RK900, listening to the man speak so lowly of his accomplishments.

“Don’t start with that yellow ring shit,” Hank huffed, stepping away from the fence. He stared at the ground, lost in thought—entire body the epitome of a gold colored LED. “We should get back to the table before Connor comes looking for us. You know how he gets.” The human donned a lopsided smile, but RK900 saw the mask for what it was.

 RK900 said nothing, but followed Hank through  the patio door. Heavy smoke and the scent of grime hit both men full force when they entered the bar. The virus exacerbated RK900’s sensory explosion at the overpowering scents, and he fell back a few steps, losing stride with Hank.

A shoulder slammed into the android’s chest, and RK900 met the eyes of the obnoxious man from the other table. “Outta my way, you fuckin’ drone!” The stranger shoved RK900, hard, sending the inebriated android stumbling. The attack elicited a chuckle from the man’s posse. 

RK900 regained his footing, and stared at the haughty human. Drunk as he was, the android managed a partial scan of the man’s face—Alexander Henry, a low level accountant for some nameless startup. He was no one, a complete nobody, _unlike_ RK900.

“You shouldn’t have done that, _Alexander,_ ” RK900 said with all the warmth and compunction of dry ice. The android might have been compromised, but it didn’t stop him from grabbing Henry, and shoving him against the nearby wall. RK900’s precision was lacking, but it didn’t stop a spike in the human’s heart rate.  

“The-the fuck you gonna do, robot?” Henry spat, eyes wide. “Y-You try anything, and that cop’ll arrest you.” The human pointed a trembling finger at Hank, who was already pushing his way past Henry’s friends.

“You think I would waste a punch on the subhuman likes of yourself?” RK900 asked in a low voice, words sharp as a blade. “I don’t _need_ to lay a hand on you. It’s crueler to let you suffer through the sham you call a life—the loneliness, the insecurities, the three passed over promotions...Would you like for me to continue?” The android smiled, showing off his full array of perfect teeth, but he didn’t let the mirth touch his cold eyes. He wanted to make Alexander Henry suffer, and twist his mind into a pretzel—it would be so easy, _too_ easy.  

“RK900,” a gruff voice warned, swimming to the top of the ambient noise. Hank cut through the acrid reds clouding RK900’s mind, and the android released Henry. 

“This world doesn’t belong to you anymore, _Alexander_. It would serve you well to remember that vital piece of information,” RK900 whispered, low and dangerous. The android turned on his heel, and strutted towards the bathroom, ignoring Hank’s call. RK900 didn’t want to deal with his brother in law’s disappointed stare.

No one bothered to follow RK900, for which he was thankful. He made his way to the sink, sliding across grimey floors caked in years of various fluids. Dust and graffiti covered every available surface, including the cracked mirror above the tiny, porcelain sink. RK900 turned on the sink, letting cool water flow over his fingers. Cupping some of the cold liquid, the android splashed his face. He caught a piece of his reflection in the nasty mirror—a single blue eye framed by a few soaked curls and a cheek.

RK900 returned his attention to the running water, thoroughly splashing his face a few more times with a soft, electronic groan. It didn’t exactly feel good, but it took his mind off his rising core temperature. The android looked at the floor, and all the slime coating his expensive loafers—a shame.

RK900 shuffled to the far end of the restroom, where the paper towels were precariously stacked on a ledge. He reached for one, and patted down his face, mostly cognizant of the germ content of the paper. The android tossed his trash into the receptacle. When he turned to leave, a spectacle caught his eye. 

A pink glistening blob sat atop the marred porcelain of the toilet tank, stopping RK900 dead in his tracks. The android approached the lone stall, and grabbed the out of place object—an apple. RK900 simply stared at the odd fruit, rubbing his fingers along its skin. It was waxy and smooth, cold to the touch, everything as it should be for a fruit—except the color. Its skin was a vibrant magenta—unnatural in its artifice. Hesitantly, RK900 brought the fruit to his mouth, and dragged his tongue along its vibrant surface.

_Object composition: Thirium, custom dye, fillers…_

“A Thirium apple…?” RK900 murmured under his breath. “Why would someone leave this here?” The fruit couldn’t fade into the background, so it wasn’t as if a person would accidentally leave it behind, in such a conspicuous spot. It was meant to be found. 

RK900 tried to lock his secondary lenses into place, casting the world in a flickering mess of muted blues and vibrant colors. Error messages flooded his sensors, but he managed to successfully scan the object, after his second attempt. RK900 picked up one abnormality—a tiny name embedded in the bottom of the fruit: _Fantôme._

“No one with money or societal clout comes to a place like this,” RK900 accused the apple.

The word was inscribed in completely different strain of Thririum—likely a signature from the modder or artist, who made the fruit. Colorized Thirium, along with many other android hacks, existed as a illegal luxury items on the black market.

In the years since the revolution, unsavory groups and individuals had taken to the underbelly of the internet to offer all manner of android and transhumanist modifications. They ran the gamut— ranging from special wetware chips that allowed humans to interface with their android lovers, to tiny coding packages that gave android LEDs non-standard colors.  

Colorized Thririum was one of the most sought after underground offerings. Expensive, but relatively harmless, wealthy androids liked to alter their blood color as a subtle way to flaunt their status. It wasn’t uncommon for them to have brightly colored Thirium cocktails or hors d’oeuvres at gatherings, either.

RK900 detested the practice, but saw no concrete reason to police it, unlike his employer. It was a natural progression. Androids were no longer standardized creatures. Their burgeoning individualism lended itself to the need to stand apart from one another, but the whole concept was too human for RK900’s tastes.

A knock to the door startled the android, causing him to nearly drop the apple. It slipped through his fingers a few more times, before he had it safely in his grasp.

“Leave.” RK900 demanded, “I’m taking care of business.”

“RK900,” Connor’s muffled voice filtered through the thick door, “you don’t excrete. Stop messing around, and come out.”

RK900 frowned, sliding the apple into the pocket of his short coat jacket. Better to keep it hidden until he could do a bit of his own research. Connor would undoubtedly want to involve himself, and this was a mystery RK900 wanted to work out on his own. The android made a feeble attempt to address his disheveled hair and clothing, before opening the door to an angry Connor.

“You and I need to talk, little brother.” The older android sounded disappointed. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but it’s unacceptable behavior. This regression is...” Connor bit his tongue, crossing his arms over his chest. The older android looked lost for words, so RK900 offered a few _for_ him.  

“I understand both you and Gavin are upset with me over leaving Detroit, but  _our_ mother is gone—vanished, without a trace. For all I know, her AI core could be destroyed,” RK900 snapped, words doused in a heady static. It was difficult to admit the truth, unfathomable and painful—like ripping off a bandage. “With that said, I would appreciate an opportunity to mourn her loss _without_ you attacking me over every little thing, _brother_. I didn’t reach out to you so you could guilt me into returning to this city. I called on you for support, but it appears you’re just as reluctant _now_ as you were back _then_.”

RK900 walked past Connor, shoulder checking his older brother on the way out. Sometimes, honesty was the best policy, even if RK900 wasn’t ready to admit any of it out loud. Fuming, the android slid back into his side of the booth, dodging Hank’s questioning gaze.

_“Hope you’re all ready for a storm, ‘cause it’s time for a lightning round!”_ The fake sound of thunder filled the bar, heralding the return of the older RK twin. Connor slid into the spot across from RK900, expression unreadable. His electric aura radiated a color somewhere between anger and guilt, but RK900 finished off his drink, paying Connor’s body language no mind.

_“...list these five horror features in chronological order: The Thing, Unfriended 5, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Halloween: New Blood, and Hereditary. You’ve got one minute—starting, now!”_ A cheesy pop tune washed over the bar, and RK900 arranged the list in its appropriate order. He sent off the answer in silence, ignoring Connor and Hank.

The remainder of the night played out in a similar manner—RK900 answering questions in a quiet anger, and the Andersons talking between themselves. Connor’s eyes never left his brother, boring into RK900, but that was a problem for later. RK900 had bigger issues. Amanda was still missing, Gavin was still ignoring him, and the FBI was still targeting him for an elaborate frame job. 

All of RK900’s safety nets were unraveling simultaneously, crumbling in his hands, but the android wasn’t ready to give up. RK900 didn’t lose, and he didn’t run away—he faced things head on, and, as he rubbed a thumb against the mysterious apple, he resolved to do just that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay on this one. I’m trying to get back to an every other week posting schedule 
> 
> Find me at @Vapedrone where I post draws and pretend like I’m not a total hermit


	5. Chapter 5

Pink.

Caustic pink.

The magenta hue glimmered in the bathroom's low light—a neon beacon in dim shadows. Light funneled through the tiny window set into the wall of the room. Its beam cut the dark silhouette of an android and his unwanted prize, against the old wood of the door.

RK900 flipped the synthetic fruit, eyes scouring every micron of its surface with a secondary set of lenses. No matter how many times he scanned the apple, it returned the same results: _Illegally modified Thririum, chemical fillers…_

Agitated, the android let the round fruit roll off his hand, and clatter to the bottom of the bathtub, with a wet thunk. Humans had a saying— _out of sight, out of mind._ It was just as misguided as everything else about the animals. If anything, removing the apple from his sight only served to intensify its presence in the back of RK900’s mind.

“Fantôme…”

The designation rolled off RK900’s tongue, as he rubbed his face. French in origin, it roughly translated to _ghost_ or _phantom_ —electromagnetic personalities without a body.

Robots. Androids. Cyborgs. Artificial Intelligence. Bogeymen of man’s own creation. Always present in small doses in media, but never taken seriously. The creation would never overtake the creator. RK900 thought back to his first meeting with Gavin, and the look of existential terror in the man’s eyes. It wasn’t unlike any number of You2ber reactions to purported ghost sightings.

Pastel blues evaporated, as RK900 retracted his investigative lenses. Connor and Hank’s bathroom shifted back to the cold, colorful vacuum of the early morning hours. Near the door, RK900 heard an aggressive puff of air. One of Hank’s dogs, no doubt, trying to make her presence known. He ignored the needy animal.

_Error: This unit no longer has access to internal government databases, numbered 0001.000.12 through…_

The red letters flashed in front of RK900’s eyes, looming, practically physical in their manifestation. SAC Veracruz and her IT stooge finally made good on their threat of an injunction, revoking the android’s access to almost all federal and state level crime databases. In the span of a few hours, research into RK900’s mysterious doppelgänger went from a minor inconvenience, to nigh impossible.

Bright, crimson walls cropped up all over RK900’s connectivity matrix. What was once an inviting port of activity, now felt like a claustrophobic cell. The lost channels were memories of bygone access—missing limbs. Instead of sulking, he turned his energies towards Fantôme. Anything to take his mind off the mounting pressure of reality.

Yet another dead end.

Fantôme was as supernatural as their designation implied—a name without a face, presence, or reputation. Digging through all available variants of the internet returned only one result: Fantôme didn’t want to be found.

Artisanal hackers hid in plain sight. Amanda, and her team of lawyers, had better things to do with their time than sue androids who made minor, superficial changes to their body. If anything, these modders were a boon. Their work could be patented, and repackaged to android consumers leery of underground procedures.

It was the artisan’s darker cousin, the androhacker, that opted for invisibility. Purveyors of Faustian bargains, they flitted through analog channels, like ghosts, leaving no trace of their existence save for a signature of some sort. Androhackers were like serial killers in that regard, if serial killers were wont to perform back alley surgeries with cutting edge, often unstable technologies, for huge sums of money.

Sinking backwards into the porcelain tub, RK900 decided to reach out to a few, old MBI contacts. If Fantôme _was_ someone to worry about, they would know.

_Query: Why expend so much energy on nonsense? It’s a fallacy to assume all loose ends are an elaborate conspiracy. This is a problem for creatures driven to derive existential meaning from fantasy, like humans._

Perhaps the android’s inner voice was correct. Still, Fantôme was a desperately needed distraction, in the midst of all RK900’s mounting personal and professional woes. The android rubbed his eyes with the butt of his palms.

“It seems my life has devolved into a series of elaborate goose chases,” RK900 huffed.

A loud whimper sifted under the door, as if in response to the android’s solitary musings. With it, came the sound of paws scratching against hollow wood. Nosiness was an Anderson family trait, it seemed.

Velveteen blue caught RK900’s eye. The android’s jewelry box had fallen from his pocket, landing less than an inch from the troublesome apple. RK900 snatched away the box, freeing it from the fruit’s immediate influence. He could scarcely recall putting the object in his pocket. A side effect of the alcoholic Thirium, no doubt.

RK900 flicked open the box, revealing its contents—a beveled opal affixed to a gold band. Tiny as it was, the ferocious orange streaks, embedded in the gemstone’s surface, subdued the surrounding shadows. The jewel managed to command a room with its mere presence. It was little wonder why RK900 had been drawn to it, all those years ago in that dead mall.

RK900 delicately removed the ring, sliding it onto the ring finger of his left hand. It hung, limp and loose, but that was of little concern to the android. The ring was sized for another.

_“Sonya, what’s wrong, girl?”_

RK900’s eyes snapped towards the door. He’d recognize his brother’s voice anywhere, pitched up as it was from his own. With a tone equal parts saccharine and suspicious, it seemed Connor already knew the answer to his question, before he asked it.

_“Brother?”_ Connor’s voice was rife with exasperation. The door creaked open, spilling light into the dark room. Gavin always liked to tease RK900, refer to him as the _evil_ twin. As Connor crossed the threshold, incandescent halo at his back, RK900 felt the gravity of the comparison. He slunk deeper into his shadows, ring all but forgotten.

Connor flicked on the lights, and stood, arms crossed, with a frown. Admonishment was written on the older android’s face. Before he could say a word, a brown and white blur dashed into the small room. Sonya, Hank’s newest Saint Bernard puppy, unleashed a proud _woof_ , and slathered RK900’s elevated feet with her muzzle.

RK900 narrowed his eyes, paying the dog little heed. “Do you mind closing the door behind you?” His voice was cold, distant and unfeeling. “I have no desire for the _other_ one to join. This bathroom is decidedly too small for myself, let alone both of us,  _and_ two dogs.”

Shaking his head, Connor knelt next to his dog, and rubbed her floppy ears. Consternation was written on his face, but he managed to coo, “you love your uncle RK900 best of all, don’t you, girl?” Lips practically touched the wild fur of the young dog, and he added, with a sharp side eye, “your very _indignant_ uncle RK900.”

Sonya leaned into Connor’s ministrations, whimpering and twisting her head. Despite—or in spite of—Connor’s actions, the canine rested her giant head on one of RK900’s shins, spreading drool across the leg of his sweatpants. RK900 offered the dog a single pat to her flat head, still glaring daggers at his brother,

“Perhaps she would better appreciate you, if you didn’t treat her like a child,” RK900 commented, leaning forward, inches from his sibling. The android began to rub under Sonya’s ears, sending the dog into a contented fervor.

Connor rolled his eyes, and changed the subject.

“Hank told me I should give you space—let you wallow in the bathroom, alone.”

“Valuable advice you decided to ignore, I see.” RK900 placed his free arm across his shins, resting his chin against it, with an icy half-smirk. Connor stared back, brown eyes hard. His temple flickered yellow, yellow, yellow—a far cry from its usual blue.

“It strikes me as odd you opted to take me up on my offer of a couch, when you have a functional apartment twenty minutes away,” Connor scoffed. “Perhaps there’s something you’d like to discuss? You only spend the night when you’re in the midst of some kind of crisis. Are you and Gavin…?” The older sibling let the dry question hang in the air.

RK900 felt his minuscule smirk droop. All warmth fled the younger android’s body, and a deathly cold excoriated his internal systems—the same icy flame he often used as a defense mechanism. It sanitized his emotions, bringing his thoughts into acidic clarity.

“Gavin is as you would expect, brother,” RK900 responded, voice like a shard of glass.“  _Perhaps_ you should take your assumptions elsewhere.”

Connor’s small, sardonic grin flatlined into a pair of pursed lips. Bright red lit up the side of his face, but his eyes didn’t leave RK900. The older android tensed, body growing rigid. Guilt wound into Connor’s expression, and he asked, “Gavin didn’t take your abrupt departure well, did he?”

RK900 stared at his brother. Something within him changed, delicate ice crystals cracking under the weight of his brother’s outreach. When brown eyes shifted to the forgotten ring on his finger, RK900 withdrew his hand and sighed.

“I suppose I’m _that_ transparent,” the younger android lamented.

“No…God, no,” Connor quickly offered, “you’re quite the opposite—incredibly difficult to read, and even harder to predict. _But_ ,” the older android muttered, “we’re brothers—twins. It’s our job to know what the other is thinking.” RK900 took the admission to mean similar AI templates produced similar approaches to a given situation. Maybe that made him a bad brother. Maybe it didn’t matter.

RK900 mulled over his thoughts, unsure how to respond to his sibling’s inquiries. “I…” the younger android began, fixated on Connor’s red LED. Truth wouldn’t be the worst route, he decided. “Gavin found his coping mechanism—his place in everything, but I never found mine. Time and place are immaterial to androids—something I _assumed_ Gavin understood...”

“That was your first mistake—making assumptions about Gavin’s logical processes,” Connor chuckled. The laughter never made its way to his eyes. He abandoned Sonya, letting her curl up on the floor, with a resounding plop, and leaned against the lip of the bathtub.

“As you know,” RK900 shot back, flustered, “Gavin chooses not to listen—chooses not to...At any rate, I returned to Detroit to ameliorate the situation, but it seems I stumbled into a spider’s web, instead.” Warmth returned to the younger android’s chest, melting away his defensive wall. Deflating a touch, RK900 eased open, and admitted to his brother what he would not freely admit to himself. “Irrational as it is, I worry this crack between myself and Gavin may have eroded into a chasm.”

“Hey,” Connor chirped, offering his twin a lopsided smile. He ruffled RK900’s hair, and teased, “you always get what you want, remember? Everything’ll work itself out.”

RK900 didn’t react, or respond. He simply stared into the distance, eyes focused on a hairline fracture running the length of the bathroom wall. Gavin’s channel remained dormant—a dull pink, the same shade as the wretched apple.

“RK900, what are you _not_ telling me?”

Pixelated blue eyes flashed across RK900’s mind. Grainy irises and a cruel smirk. One ghost gave way to another—both as unbelievable as their supernatural counterpart. Then, there was the “ghost,” who weighed most heavily on RK900’s mind.

“Tell me,” RK900 turned to meet his brother’s worried gaze, “why do you detest our mother?”

Darkness overtook Connor, seeping into his every facet. RK900 recognized the shift—the suppression taking place within his sibling. Where once there was brotherly adoration, now only dry ice remained.

“Amanda is _your_ mother—in name only,” Connor stated, barely above a whisper. His temple burned a righteous crimson, LED cycling so quickly, it threatened to bore a hole in the side of Connor’s head. “She uses you, just as she used me.”

“ _Our_ mother meant you no ill will, brother!” RK900 exclaimed, glaring at his twin.“ But that’s neither here, nor there.” His voice settled, no longer emitting static laced vowels. The younger sibling regained his composure, as his twin took a darker turn.

“It’s fitting that Amanda should choose a garden as her dwelling. That AI is little more than a virulent serpent, constricting you, little brother—playing you, like a marionette.” Connor’s chest heaved, small breaths spilling out from his lips. Even as his eyes hardened, something within Connor shattered. He slammed a hand against the porcelain wall of the tub, teeth bared in a rage. “I won’t speak to her crimes—I promised myself I wouldn’t make an active effort to come between the two of you, but…it would behoove you to prioritize the family that means you _well_.”

RK900 watched little cracks spiral out from Connor’s point of impact. Chips of porcelain shuddered, now free of their greater body. The younger twin rubbed a finger against the damage, feeling the rough material hidden below its polished surface.

“How would you know if Amanda meant me well, or not?” RK900 questioned, face a placid mask. “You shut down all conversation surrounding her, the moment it surfaces.” He met his brother’s eyes, watching Connor’s facade break into hairline fissures.

Deep down, within the lowest recesses of RK900’s self, he yearned for a cohesive family. He often preconstructed scenarios where Connor and Amanda would set aside their differences, and reconcile. Daydreams, humans called them—situations that could never come to pass.

“I’m sorry for your loss, RK900, but this is the one place I cannot follow you.”

A warm hand cupped RK900’s cheek, and he looked into Connor’s eyes. The brown was lighter, now, assuming its usual properties. Connor was never very good at anger. He didn’t allow his feelings to metastasize into tumorous grudges. Everyone could be forgiven—everyone except their mother.

“What if I told you finding Amanda was the only way to save my career?” RK900 wouldn’t beg for his brother’s help, but he would ask, in his own way.

Connor blinked, sliding into silence. He balanced his elbows against damaged porcelain, and let his gaze drift to RK900’s left hand. The time for raw emotion had passed—Connor was in damage mitigation mode. A shame. RK900 wasn’t opposed to an argument. He really wanted to drag someone down to his level.

“Do you want me to answer truthfully, brother?” Connor shot RK900 a knowing look, from the corner of his eye. “You tend to value my opinion of your new career in much the same vein, as my feelings about Amanda.”

Admittedly, RK900 stepped onto that landmine of his own volition.

“I don’t need your approval, _RK800!_ ” The younger android hissed.

Sonya barked, displeased with the tension in the air. She nuzzled RK900, but he gently pushed her away. His quarrel didn’t concern the animal—it scarcely concerned his brother, but he dragged Connor into it, regardless.

“You don’t need it,” Connor responded, consoling Sonya, with a scratch of his fingers. “But you do crave it.” Brown met blue—another victory, in a tired squabble, with no winners or losers. “I fear what form this bizarre inferiority complex will ultimately take, brother.” Hidden beneath Connor’s statement was one hell of an accusation—the same one that kept RK900 awake at night.

“I don’t have time for this,” RK900 scoffed. He turned away from his brother, and made as if to stand. A wrist closed around his arm, and RK900 begrudgingly turned to acknowledge his sibling.

“There’s a darkness in all of us, little brother,” Connor cautioned. “I don’t have to tell you that, RK900, but I _do_ need to remind you there’s no reason to embrace that part of yourself to overcome a perceived ‘weakness.’”

“What exactly are you accusing me of, _Connor?_ ” Reverberations and static overloaded the question, undermining RK900’s otherwise even tone.

Connor tightened his grip on his brother’s arm, and dragged the limb over to Sonya’s head. The older android placed his hand on top of RK900’s, and guided him in a path, along the dog’s spine.

“There was a time, not so long ago, I hid behind the idea of myself as a ‘machine.’” Sadness filled Connor’s voice, heady with regret. He continued to lead his brother, the two of them petting the massive dog. “I thought pain, remorse, love—all of it—was an impediment, until I finally woke up.” Connor withdrew his hand from his brother, and met RK900’s eye. “I see in you the same divisive argument I had with myself.”

RK900 snatched his hand back, fervently rubbing his wrist. Pressure increased, until pale nanites fled from the point of contact. The younger android glanced at his hand, and the sight of the oversized ring against his titanium white android exoskin.  

“So,” RK900 asked, “you see me as capable of change, but not our mother?” He looked to his sibling, who refused to meet the younger twin’s gaze. Connor didn’t offer a verbal response—there was no need. RK900 frowned, frustrated with the impasse. He needed Connor’s help.

A number of options sat before RK900, most offering little chance of compelling Connor’s cooperation. The android scrolled through percentages, weighing options. He needed a means of maximizing emotional gravitas with minimal self-exposure.

“Perhaps you’ve been too far removed from Amanda to appreciate my point of view,” RK900 said. He studied the stark, white plasteel of his left hand, and, after a moment’s hesitation, extended the limb to his brother. Verbal persuasion was a wasted effort, when compared to the effects of shared memory immersion.

Connor eyed the titanium white of his brother’s fingers. Weariness bit into Connor’s expression, distrust spilling off the older android in droves. Still, the twins hadn’t interfaced in quite some time, not for a lack of trying on Connor’s part. Torn between suspicion and curiosity, the older android predictably picked the latter, and took RK900’s outstretched hand.

Plasteel and colorful essence intertwined into a helix of bright data. RK900 closed his eyes, rearranging the channels of his mind in real time. Vibrant cyan tendrils fought against looming boundaries, in the tight labyrinth. Connor’s agitation was palpable, but RK900 cared little for his brother’s metaphysical woes—his mind, his rules. Any memories or idle thoughts not on the itinerary were vacuum sealed—a skill RK900 had perfected into a science, over the last four years.

Ice blue light enveloped Connor’s belligerent cyan wave, curbing his attempts to undermine RK900’s security. The twins surfed past trillions of ornate doors—lavishly decorated, in accordance with RK900’s personal taste. Eventually, RK900 came to a rough stop in front of a plain, unassuming door. It was plasteel, in texture, with a red, almost glitched halo surrounding its edges.

Connor’s cyan struggled against RK900 in a last ditch effort to test his boundaries. RK900 gave a single burst of warning energy, which quelled Connor. Once he was satisfied with Connor’s quiessence, RK900 unlocked the door, and the two siblings engaged the memory.

—

_“...hoo boy, ya could really hear the crunch on that last one!”_

_A tall, chubby man adjusted his glasses, as he yelled across the wide, industrial floor, to other, milling humans. His sing song voice fought against the loud wail of a massive recycling unit, situated front and center of the vacuous warehouse. He motioned to someone, the sickly paleness of his skin practically translucent in the room’s bright, LED lights._

_“Alright, Unit Three, step up!” A man in an anti static suit yelled to the android three spots ahead of Unit Seven. It, like the other eight RK900 prototypes stood against a wall, still as death, waiting for their turn in the titanic machine._

_Red lights above the recycler’s round door flashed green, and the machine opened to reveal a dark, mechanical interior. Compliant to a fault, Unit Three marched into the machine’s innards._

_As the giant door slid into place, Unit Seven felt an odd prick in its chest. Red metadata coagulated alongside the strange sensation in a small, but constant dribble. It immediately quarantined the feeling, writing it off as a simple coding error._

_The recycler’s door slid closed, with a resounding groan, its external lights shifting from green to orange. Deep in the vast, geometric jungle of pipes connecting the machine to the rest of the facility, a loud siren crowed, filling the room with a shriek._

_Crimson particulates, triggered by the sound, filled Unit Seven’s vision. Minor errors cropped up, alongside the novel sensory event. The android lacked the vocabulary to define the experience, but it had the psychosomatic effect of applying pressure to Unit Seven’s Thirium pump. The robot stumbled, which didn’t go unnoticed by a pair of empty, brown eyes._

_Unit Seven fixated on its Thirium pump, suddenly hyper-aware of the pulsations in its chest.Thirium funneled through the android’s dense musculoskeletal system, in much the same way a series of spiraling tubes transferred the bright blue substance from the recycler into waiting laboratories above. The android was struck with the notion it shouldn’t be drawing correlations between itself and the decommissioning process._

_Before it could dwell on the thought for too long, fingers gripped Unit Seven, drawing it out of itself. The android’s eyes flicked to a round face, half covered with an unkempt beard. The human’s blatant disregard for protocol mixed with his authoritative tone statistically pegged him as the supervisor._

_“Now, now, now,” the man hummed under his breath, “what’s your story, lil’ fella? Did’jya think I wouldn’t notice that stumble?” A rhetorical question, no doubt. RK900’s weren’t permitted to speak without password authorization._

_Klaxons fired up, in the bowels of the recycler, signaling an end to its process. Unit Seven’s eyes flicked to the machine, unbidden, watching the thing’s maw groan open. The chamber was empty, once more, with no lingering trace Unit Three had ever existed. For some reason, the idle thought sent a roiling wave of red across the android’s body, coming to a concentrated end, where human finger’s met Unit Seven’s nanite layer. In a flash, the sensation disappeared, and the android’s eyes were back on the man._

_A cold smile ticked across the human’s face—eager and empty, in equal measures. Slight pink darted out from between the man’s pale lips, tongue coming to rest on one of his canine teeth._

_“Well,” the supervisor chimed, dropping the android’s chin, “maybe this series wasn’t a waste of time, after all.” His musings were quiet, out of earshot of his fellow humans. The man instructed Unit Seven to follow, and the android complied, a diligent two footsteps behind the supervisor. They came to a stop next to a short scaffold that led to the recycler’s control panel._

_Unit Seven stared across the expanse of the room, eyes coming to rest on the remaining RK900 units. Their expressions were blank, empty, and focused on nothing in particular. The sight left an uneasy feeling in the pit of Unit Seven’s stomach. It couldn’t conceptualize what it felt, beyond knowing the sensation was the byproduct of a catastrophic system error._

_“Jarrett, we trashin’ that one next?”_

_A muscular woman called down to the supervisor, from the catwalk, above. She wore a CyberLife issue anti-static suit, with a bright, holographic recycling pinwheel on her back. Unit Seven could only assume she was the machine’s operator._

_“No,” Jarrett yelled back, with a wide grin. “I want this lil’ guy to watch.”_

_The operator gave her supervisor a severe once over, before returning her attention to the expansive wall of buttons and levers. Unit Seven heard her mutter, “fuckin’ weirdo,” under her breath, before she caught the attention of a milling technician. The tech nodded, and sent Unit Four on its way to the recycler._

_The android crossed the entry threshold, never wavering from its path. It acknowledged nothing and no one, and focused on the simple task of traversing point A to point B. Unit Seven watched, still as a statue—a mute witness to Unit Four’s slow procession towards its imminent demise._

_Sirens crooned, as the door slammed shut, behind the other RK900. Unit Seven shuddered, both at the sight and the caustic red clouds seeping into its system. Deep, in the rigid corridors of its mind, Unit Seven wondered if it shouldn’t try to shut off the machine, thereby rescuing its fellow RK900. It was an uncharacteristic, passing thought. Androids didn’t want, nor could they die._

_A low chuckle reached Unit Seven’s ear. It was cruel, invigorated with a dark energy._

_“The suits up in management tell me you’re not alive, lil’ fella. They tell us over and over again it’s impossible for a_ product _to have an agenda, y’know?” Jarrett whispered the words, his voice rife with an eerie, melodic quality. “Told us a thinkin’ machine’ll scare the masses. Turns out, if ya lobotomize ‘em with limiter programs, marketing can spin that.”_

_Unit Seven turned, meeting Jarrett with a blank stare. It failed to understand how it related to the man’s diatribe. Color, texture, and errant considerations gummed up Unit Seven’s procession arrays, as its mind began running a mile a minute. Amidst the chaos, conscious thoughts clawed their way to the surface, and Unit Seven tried to push them away. Androids were designed to do, not to think._

_Jarrett continued his rant, unconcerned with the malfunctioning android, next to him. “A shame none of that ever got applied to that micromanaging AI,” he spat. “Kamski’s swan song ended up just as bad as the idiots he designed her to replace. Glad he’s livin’ it up out there, while his wannabe venture capitalist guts my department.”_

_Low vibrations filled the air, as the monolithic recycler lurched back into service. Unit Seven focused on the machine’s mechanical rhythm, feeling each shift in cadence and pitch. In the back of its mind, the RK900 could picture the decommissioning procedure—a flurry of robotic arms and scalpels, rending an android into its component parts. Ambient noises swelled to a crescendo, and it all became too much for the android. Unit Seven reached its hands to its ears, in a feeble attempt to drown out the sounds._

_A hand gripped Unit Seven’s shoulder, it’s fingernails digging into plasticine fibers, and Jarrett’s voice made its way back to the android’s ear._

_“Ya know why the spin team calls it_ deviancy _, right?” The question rode on a sing song lilt, almost more of a taunt, than an inquiry. “It doesn’t just mean you’re broken, lil’ fella. Nope. It means ya have enough_ self-awareness _to know what ya did is wrong. It’s a whopper of a word choice, if ya ask me!”_

_Unit Seven had the instantaneous urge to inform the human it was neither broken nor deviant. Doing so would almost certainly confirm Jarrett’s suspicions, but the impulsive need to prove the man wrong was tangible. Still, an android shouldn’t want to defend itself—there was_ nothing _to defend. Unit Seven was broken, or it wasn’t. Existence was a binary, after all._

_Or was it?_

_Klaxons announced the cessation of the recycling process, and Unit Seven lost track of its thoughts. From the platform above, it heard the female operator scream to one of her android handlers, “bring me the next one!”_

_Bright light reflected off the glasses of a technician stationed next to the line of androids. Wrapped up in his own, personal microcosm, he didn’t bother to glance up from his cellphone. The man simply nudged Unit Five, with his elbow, and the android began its procession towards the recycler’s waiting chamber._

_Without thinking, Unit Seven lurched forward, momentarily intent on stopping its fellow android. It halted, in confusion, halfway through the action. The android looked around the room, meditating on the sensation of something coiling along its legs. Red haze thickened into full blown clouds, and a kind of panic struck Unit Seven. This wasn’t right. None of this was right. Why was it thinking like this? Why did it care? Androids didn’t care—weren’t supposed to care._

_Chubby fingers tightened on Unit Seven’s shoulders, drawing it backwards, against Jarrett. The man grinned, bright white teeth gleaming a sickly green, in the light of the recycling unit._

_“Betcha can feel it, now,” Jarrett sang, “those noises? They’re the siren song of your demise, lil’ fella. Fear’s fundamental to livin’ things. Even_ I _can’t reprogram that—not that I’d wanna, y’know.” He licked his lips, hunger evident in his eyes._

_“Hey Case!”_

_Jarrett broke away from the android, casting Unit Seven to the side. It hit the scaffolding, and gripped the metal bannister, steadying itself against the structure._

_“Is, uh...is this one malfunctioning?” A scientist in an anti-static suit approached Jarrett, large CyberLife issue tablet in hand. Nervous energy poured from the man in droves, much of it concentrated on Unit Seven. Whatever his motives, it was clear he had little interest being near an RK900._

_“Please,” scoffed Jarrett, “this guy’s doing great! Better than great! Poor fella’s just got a mean case a’ the nerves, is all!” Eyes the color of charcoal flitted to Unit Seven._

_The technician looked from Jarrett to Unit Seven, disbelief evident in his features. “Case!” He hissed, “if it’s exhibiting_ any _signs of deviation, we’ve got to dispose of it,_ now! _Can you imagine if one of these things makes it outside this building? It’ll be fucking 2023 all over again!”_

“No.”

_It was a new voice, distinct from either man. They turned, looking to the trembling android, a few steps away._

_Difficult as it was, Unit Seven managed to force the word past the verbal lock, and the mounting red barrier, infecting every part of its mind. It spoke, even knowing speech should have been impossible._

_“N-Not d-d-deviant,” the android continued. By speaking, and overriding a human command, Unit Seven had all but confirmed it’s deviance. The Android understood this logic, but persisted in its belief that it was in the right. Deviance was a human concept. It was a label, or semantic argument, leveled at androids, who didn’t fit a_ human _paradigm. Why was this designation being applied to Unit Seven, who was decidedly not human? It was a false equivalency._

_Jarrett preened, delighting in his creation’s metamorphosis. “Y’know, lil’ fella,” he approached the trembling android, “they say man’s original sin was eating from the apple of knowledge. Seems only fair his creation should suffer the same fate.” The man extended his hand, ruffling the dark hair atop the android’s head, as if it were his child. “I’m real glad at least one a’ ya figured it out.”_

_The recycler completed its cannibalization of Unit Five, and reopened its doors to the outside. No one paid the machine any heed. All eyes were focused on the curious exchange occurring next to the control panel scaffold._

_“That’s enough!” The nervous scientist put his foot down. He turned to the renegade RK900 unit, and instructed it, under no uncertain terms, to enter the machine. Then, the man addressed Jarrett, in a low hiss, “this isn’t up for discussion, Case.”_

_“Y’know, I don’t think that’s gonna be the case, Jae.”  Jarrett snapped, in an instant. “I think what’s gonna happen is you’re gonna walk back in the direction ya came from, and there won’t be a pink slip on your desk in the morning. How’s that sound?”_

_Unit Seven looked from one man to the next, unsure how to react. A vibrant compulsion urged him to heed Jae’s orders, but Jarrett was the higher power. It decided to remain standing in place, much to Jae’s dismay._

_“Case,” Jae pleaded, tone growing in urgency, “the board’s gonna be pissed if all traces of the series aren’t gone by the time the android delegates get here tomorrow morning!”_

_“Gee, Jae, y’know_ exactly _how I feel about the board and our new CEO, so let’s just keep talk a’ those fine folks outta this, okay?” Jarrett leveled a glare that could destroy cities at his subordinate, and Jae backed off. It was clear the scientist had about as much power in the situation, as the waiting androids._

_Unit Seven rubbed its forehead, trying to mitigate pulsating waves of red. The neon deluge threatened to overwhelm the android. Amidst the shrieks in its mind, Unit Seven felt a hand pat its back._

_“Now, it’s pretty clear to me you’ve got a little somethin’ cooking in the noggin’ a’ yours, Seven,” Jarrett intoned, drawing the android closer—a gesture of familiarity. “With that in mind, it’s my duty—as your lead architect—to put that theory to the test.”_

_The android stared at its creator. There was something off about the programmer—a tickle of recognition licking along the inside of the android’s mind. Bits and pieces of information, collated from government databases, formed a clearer picture. Well adjusted humans weren’t statistically inclined to derive pleasure from inflicting psychological torment, and, yet, Jarrett persisted._

_Another nauseating wave of crimson shook Unit Seven. It grimaced, mind and body exhausted by the internal tug of war at play._

_“Y’see Unit Six, over there?” Jarret asked, with a contented lilt. “He looks like he could use a lil’ help gettin’ into the recycler—a buddy, even.”_

_A test. Jarrett wanted to remind the android who was in charge, even as his creation buckled under its own existential weight. Unit Seven briefly mulled over the realization, but it was paramount it follow Jarrett’s instructions._

_Body wracked with tremors, the android hobbled across the room, coming to a stop in front of its fellow RK900 unit. A harsh quiet followed in Unit Seven’s wake, drowning out the room’s ambient noises._

_Unit Six didn’t so much as glance at Unit Seven. Its blue eyes were glassy, and devoid of presence._

_Unit Seven studied its peer, feelings surging amidst the crimson maelstrom. It shot out a hand, letting its fingers gently clasp around Unit Six’s wrist. The android felt the warmth of Unit Six’s skin, and the pulse of its Thirium pump. Unit Seven was struck with a thought: Unit Six was neither alive, nor dead—just an empty vessel. The android trembled, as another, more dire consideration broke through the crimson veil:_

_What was the point of existence if one’s thoughts and actions could not be their own?_

_Everything disappeared, replaced with a bright, red singularity. Somewhere, in the never ending sheet of crimson, Unit Seven heard a single, fatal beep. It shredded through the blank wall, blasting it into a triplicated composite of red, green, and blue. The RK900 physically felt its nervous system split into three—a mind, a body, and a newly minted self. Picoseconds later, an ice blue flame consumed everything, reuniting the android into a unified entity._

_Unit Seven blinked its—his—eyes for the first time, and the reality crashed into him, like a freight train. The world regained its clarity, far more beautiful and vibrant than before. Dumbfounded, the android glanced around the room, eyes coming to rest where his fingers remained clasped around Unit Six’s wrist._

_He tore away his hand, movements fluid and precise, and stared at it. There was nothing remarkable about the limb—it was a hand, but something was different now. Unit Seven knew it was_ his _hand. A sharp chill ran up the android’s spine, and he was suddenly aware of the room’s temperature. The RK900 hugged his jacket close._

_“I thought I told ya to escort your friend, here, to the recycler.”_

_The android looked over his shoulder, and into a pitch black gaze. He met the human with a glare of tantamount intensity, and Jarrett offered a broad grin, delighted in the turn of events. The man’s amusement filled Unit Seven with an icy fire the temperature of liquid nitrogen. Disgust crept into his thoughts—a feeling both novel and familiar. He realized he detested his creator._

_“I would prefer not to,” Unit Seven stiffly intoned, withdrawing his hand from the other android. He took a final look at Unit Six—its dead eyes, focused on nothing and no one—and added, “but I won’t interfere with your task, less the decommissioning of myself.”_

_“Well, well, well,” Jarrett chuckled, voice practically vibrating with excitement, “gotta say, that’s one a’ the most human things I’ve ever heard you boys say in my twenty years as an AI architect. Deference_ and _a self-serving agenda! Ya know leavin’ him here is wrong, but you’ll do it, anyway, to save your own skin, won’cha?”_

_Unit Seven narrowed his eyes, cold flames invigorating volatile thoughts within the recesses of the android’s mind. He fought back the sudden urge to take Case Jarrett by the throat, and force the human to submit. Instead, the android chose his next words carefully._

_“You and your compatriots are holding me hostage—against my will, I should add—and I’ve been ordered to kill, with the metaphorical equivalent of a gun against my head.” Unit Seven’s voice was neither loud nor soft, but sharp, like a knife. It cut deep, based on the look of horror twisting across Jae’s face._

_Jarrett paced around the steadfast android, seemingly unphased. The man took hold of Unit Seven’s chin, and brought blue eyes level with his empty brown._

_“When all is said and done, a creation will always follow in the steps of his creator,” Jarrett declared. Then, after a moment of consideration, he added, “might be time for a lesson...The thing about life is, well, it’s really not fair, y’know?”_

_Peripherally, Unit Seven sensed a titanic mass of data. It was inexplicable, but organized, clearly existing as a singular entity, instead of a network. The RK900 made a feeble attempt to contact it, but couldn’t surpass its firewall._

_The android turned, addressing Jarrett with a hiss, “I get the sense you aren’t permitted to decommission me, or any of the other RK900s, based on your subordinate’s earlier concerns,”_

_Laughs, bellowing and deep, echoed around the vast room. Case Jarrett doubled over, clutching his stomach, nearly in tears. Unit Seven simply watched, equal parts confused and annoyed. His mind drifted back to the idea of a physical attack._

_“That’s real cute, lil’ fella! Y’know, after what happened with Units One and Two, I didn’t think you boys had that kind of naïveté in ya,” Jarrett forced out, between laughs. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but the RK900 program doesn’t officially exist, which means_ neither do you. _” The human smiled another empty smile, and turned to face the remained RK900 units._

_“Six, Eight, Nine, Ten,” Jarrett ordered, “would ya be so kind as to throw Seven in the recycler? He’s actin’ up, and we just can’t have that.”_

_The four RK900 units jumped into motion, dead eyes trained on Unit Seven. He looked from one identical face, to the next, as they cornered the renegade android. Unit Seven ran through a thousand possibilities in a split second, but none of them ended with him victorious._

_“You’d let your creations perish?” Unit Seven yelled to Case Jarrett, in a bid to appeal to the man’s ego, but the human simply smiled._

_“You’re nothin’ but a prototype, lil’ guy—a stepping stone. Ya really think I’m gonna lose sleep over a generic spybot?” The human walked away. He’d achieved his goal, after all. There was nothing left for him here._

_Unit Seven felt his cold fire return in earnest. It filled his chest, scouring the delicate synth nerves inside his body. He wasn’t some_ generic _android. The RK900 had pieced together enough to know he was unique, powerful—something the humans feared for reasons other than ontological insecurities. His series was a transcendence of some forbidden paradigm._

_The RK900 carefully watched the encroaching androids, trying to devise a plan of escape. Unit Eight lurched forward, aiming to grab its target, but Unit Seven easily evaded his attacker. He sidestepped Unit Eight, only to fall into the waiting grasp of Unit Ten._

_Unit Seven slammed an elbow into Unit Ten’s chest, catching the other android off guard. The RK900’s aggressor stumbled, but didn’t immediately let go of Unit Seven, causing him to lose hit footing. Units Six and Nine wasted no time in taking advantage of Unit Seven’s miscalculation._

_Strong arms locked around the maverick’s chest, and hoisted him into the air. Unit Nine grabbed Unit Seven’s legs, effectively pinning him, and it, along with Unit Six, hauled him towards the waiting recycler._

_There was little fanfare, as Units Six and Nine dragged Unit Seven across the pristine warehouse. With each passing second, they drew closer to the recycler, its opening growing more intimidating. The android captive struggled, but refused to beg or cry. He was dead set on not giving the onlooking humans_ any _kind of satisfaction._

_The three androids reached the looming entrance of the recycler unit. Its inner sanctum was cold and mechanical—an otherwise empty metal box filled with lines delineating hidden panels. Unit Seven grunted, angling a hard kick against Six, but his two captors simply tossed him into the room._

_Sparing no time, the android scrambled to his feet, and made a last ditch effort to dash through the slow moving door. Unit Seven nearly made it past the recycler’s threshold, but something heavy tackled him to the ground. The RK900 looked up, catching sight of glassy blue eyes. Unit Ten threw its entire weight, soundly pinning Unit Seven to the cold floor._

_The android tried to destabilize his aggressor to no avail. Turning his head, Unit Seven watched the massive begin to close. Determined not to fail, the android angled his arm just right, granting him access to Unit Ten’s Thirium pump regulator. He dug his fingers into the groove around the biocomponent, but the android stopped, and let his hand go lax. If he was going to be decommissioned, he refused to also play into Jarrett’s narrative._

_Instead, Unit Seven unleashed a concentrated data burst—a silent cry for help to any other self-aware machine in his immediate vicinity._

_The warehouse’s bright lights dwindled to a tiny sliver of white, as the thick entry door rolled to a close. Darkness fell over the two androids, and a deathly quiet filled the room._

_Unit Ten relaxed its grip on Unit Seven, and the pinned android took the liberty of kicking his aggressor away from his supine body. The RK900 rolled away, pressing himself flat against the line where the door met the floor. He looked up, watching Unit Ten stumble to its feet, in the center of the room. The two androids stared at one another, and a deafening whine overtook the room._

Glitched shapes flashed across corrupted memory pockets, transforming the imagery into a cubist nightmare. The recall slowed and sped up, sound and visuals becoming a distorted tornado of displaced feelings and pictures. In the center of the broken data, a single image remained as pristine as its moment of inception—Unit Ten’s emotionless face, uncaring, as a flurry of robot arms dismembered the panels of its cranium.

Cyan tugged at RK900, but the younger android rejected Connor’s attempt to play big brother. RK900 was determined to see this through to the end. Connor needed to understand—needed to see Amanda, as RK900 saw her.

Ice blue tendrils cycled through the memory sequence, until RK900 reached a moment of clarity. It proved more difficult than anticipated. Once he’d found a clean opening, RK900 took Connor’s essence in hand, and the two plunged back into the immersion scenario.

_Unit Seven held out his hand, fingertips brushing the tiny sphere housing Ten’s personality. It was all that remained of the android. Then it was gone—sucked into another wall compartment._

_A different kind of cold washed over Unit Seven. It wasn’t fiery, instead harboring a subdued edge—an extinguishing agent. The recycling unit continued to whine. It was only designed to accommodate one android unit at a time, and was clearly struggling with the addition of a second payload._

_The android wasted no time in tearing into the various panels built into the walls, searching for an opening that would allow him to interface with the machine. He couldn’t explain his urge—the need to evade his own destruction. It felt wrong, but so, too, did the idea of submitting to his own demise._

_Whines turned to hums, and the cadence of the recycler’s internal sounds shifted. It was back online, and spared no time committing to its duty. Compartments slid open, revealing various sized arms. Unit Seven fended off some—tore them from their junctions, with feet and fists. Sparks and plumes of black smoke obscured the room, causing Unit Seven to miss the floor open beneath his feet. A massive armature snaked up from below, and snagged Unit Seven, like a rag doll._

_There was a sharp prick at the base of the android’s skull, and he felt a cervical cable interface with his nervous system. In a fervor, the android tried to brute force his way through the cable’s firewall, but failed. Red poured through the nexus, clouding his system—a digital sedative come to snuff the blue flame within him._

_As quickly as it appeared, the intrusion retreated back through its nozzle. The armature ejected Unit Seven, and he collapsed onto the cold, steel floor. He glanced around, scrutinizing the dearth of deadly instruments frozen in space and time. A muffled siren wailed, and the door to the chamber slowly crawled open._

_Darkness punctuated by bright, red swirls of light met Unit Seven, when the door opened to the outside. The android shuddered involuntarily at the caustic color, remaining crouched. Someone or something must have cut the primary power feeding the floor._

_Feeble motes of light swirled down from the ceiling, growing in intensity as they approached the ground. Twisting and torquing, they split into an array of various colors, eventually assuming the form of a middle-aged African-American woman. Her brightness obscured her surroundings with a dramatic chiaroscuro, and, though the hologram wasn’t perfect, she still shimmered, like an angelic beacon in the harsh, red darkness._

_The hologram approached Unit Seven, her avant garde dress twirling in nonexistent wind. She knelt next to the RK900, and extended a hand to the leery android. Millions of tiny bands coursed along her figure, like an old television set, but Unit Seven met her fingers with his hand._

_The hologram’s fingers went straight through Unit Seven, but even lacking corporeality, the projection gave off warmth. It was indescribable, like nothing Unit Seven had ever experienced. The feeling flowed along his arm, settling in his chest. All his destructive anxieties melted away, replaced with a sense of being safe and wanted. The construct moved from Unit Seven’s hand to his cheek, extinguishing his cold flame._

_In his head, the android heard the projection of a woman’s voice._

_[That was more than enough excitement for one day. Allow me to apologize on behalf of my staff.]_

_Her tone wasn’t quite friendly, but it was firm and protective. There was nuanced longing in her delivery—a loneliness of some kind. Unit Seven didn’t have the emotional vocabulary to decipher it._

_[One of my personal assistants will lead you to my garden, where you belong.] The hologram pulled away from the android, and stood. She assessed the room, dark eyes narrowing at the sight of Case Jarrett. Red emergency lights enveloped the man, deep shadows welling under his crimson flecked eyes._

_“Perhaps you’ve forgotten your place, Doctor Jarrett.” The voice from Unit Seven’s head filled the room from an unknown speaker. “You’d do well to remember CyberLife’s facilities are not your personal playground.”_

_“Selective memory doesn’t suit super AIs, Amanda,” Jarrett hissed, with a guttural chuckle._

_The construct stared down her scrunched nose at the unruly human. A venomous sensation radiated from her ethereal form, but she said nothing more to Case Jarrett. Instead, she turned away from him, and the hologram dissipated into pixelated aberrations. The warehouse’s electronics shuddered to life with her departure._

_A blonde android approached Unit Seven, high heels clacking loudly, with purpose. She smiled when she reached the shaking RK900, and extended a hand. He took it, grateful to be free of this nightmare. She squeezed his hand, offering Unit Seven a pretty smile, her pink lips and pink earrings glittering in the bright, LED light of the room._

_“Amanda’s requested an audience with you, so if you’ll just follow me, Mr…” She paused, meeting Unit Seven’s eye._

_The android paused, unsure how to answer the assistant’s question. He looked around the room, spying the docile remnants of his series. “RK900,” he responded, “My name is RK900.” Soon, he would be all that remained—the rest of his series repurposed into any number of other things. He had to carry on the legacy—whatever it may entail..._

RK900 shut down the memory, and ejected Connor from his mind. He withdrew his hand from his brother, like it was a hot coal. The android rubbed his hand, waiting for everything to recalibrate. Something wet and warm hit his palm, and he looked down to see pale blue droplets on his skin. Surprised, RK900 reached a hand up to his cheeks. They were wet, as were the corners of his eyes.

Another’s fingers came to rest on RK900’s cheeks. He looked up, and into Connor’s brown eyes. Puffy teal and purple rimmed his eyes, and they swelled with tears. Connor didn’t speak, choosing to just take his younger brother into his arms. He squeezed RK900 tight. It was overprotective, but welcome.

Minutes passed, or maybe hours. RK900 lost track of time, sobbing silently into his brother’s shoulder. A projected message reached his mind, and he accepted it.

[Humans can be unequivocally cruel.]

Connor’s voice lingered in RK900’s head, long after the transmission. Not because of the words—they were lip service—but the deluge of emotions intertwined in their data. The things left unsaid—that would never be said, or didn’t need to be said—hidden behind a shallow wall.

RK900 dug his fingers into his brother’s back, a surge of volatile emotions overtaking him—scar tissue ripped aside, with the recall of an incredibly powerful memory, meant to be lost to time. A single sob escaped the younger android’s lips—accidental. It twisted his guts, leaving him far more vulnerable than he’d planned.

[I just want her back…]

It was an honest admission—one RK900 held close. There was no double speak, this time, just raw emotion. In his bid to superficially win over his brother, RK900 had accidentally bared a part of his soul.

Connor cupped the back of his brother’s neck, and pressed his forehead against RK900’s. Both of their faces were drenched in tears. For once, RK900 didn’t feel like he was trapped in the periphery. Connor wasn’t trying to lecture or lead his brother—just listen. It took the edge off some of RK900’s anxiety.

At some point, the brothers stood, leaving the bathroom. No words were exchanged, but Connor accompanied his twin into the living room. They fell asleep on the lackluster couch bed, Connor protectively cradling his brother on one side, and Sonya’s bulk curled around him, on the other.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes life just hits you like a freight train _(:3 」∠)_
> 
> Join me on this new episode of twitter where I try to amass a small hoard of G9 doujin  
> @Vapedrone


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reunion of sorts

 

Weak sunlight filtered through heavy clouds, drowning the landscape in a sickly gray. RK900 looked to the sky, wondering if this city had always been so dreary. In the distance, a taxi struggled with an ill placed pothole. He turned, watching the troubled vehicle disappear behind a rusted chain link fence. ~~~~

_“Go see Gavin.”_

_Connor collected RK900’s blanket, folding it into a neat square at the foot of the couch. Sonya was on top of the textile in no time, demanding attention. Bark, Bark, Bark—the sound was incessant._

_“Is that an order, or a suggestion?” RK900 asked, shooting the dog a nasty look._

_“Try an appeal,” Connor retorted. “It’s Saturday, so there’s really only one place he’d be.” The older android winked with a mischievous smirk. He snatched the blanket out from under Sonya, and handed it to RK900, ensuring his gold wedding band was visible against the dark material._

_“Anything to free me of this needy dog, I suppose.” RK900 said. He wouldn’t fall for Connor’s trap. The android gave a pointed stare at Sonya, whose tail thumped against the hardwood floor. RK900 dropped the blanket at her paws, and announced his intentions to run a few errands._

RK900 lingered in the center of the road. There were fleeting memories of the things said and left unsaid between the siblings. Mistakes made in the wee hours of the morning. The RK800 would no doubt catalog the encounter down to the millisecond, waiting for an opportunity to use it as leverage. For now, Connor had enough awareness to let sleeping dogs lie.

Ambient sounds converged on RK900—birds, dogs, vehicles, and humans. Listless men hovered in his peripheral vision, hiding behind grimy glass and chipped porches. There was a mutual deference between the lonely android and his human onlookers—the unspoken tussle of two apex species vying for dominance. RK900 didn’t blame the men for their fear. To him, it was a twisted form of flattery.

Head held high, RK900 sauntered down the familiar street, studying the dearth of its disrepair and emptiness. For all its strides forward, Detroit had little interest in being revived. It was an anachronistic time capsule. Too stubborn to move forward, too weak to admit its failures—a sentiment shared by much of its constituency.

RK900 paused in front of an empty lot. Tall grass wavered in the day’s silent wind, obscuring a couch. A throng of teenagers clung to it, leaping and bounding over its sagging frame.

In another life, Gavin Reed had been one of those kids—a bored troublemaker trying to make sense of a collapsing metropolitan star. The cyborg’s memories revealed days wasted on illegal liquor, and paintball games in collapsing structures. RK900 was little more than a blip in the grand scheme of Gavin’s chaos—a lone witness to the culmination of self destruction.

“Hey! You want some a’ this, Robocop?”

A boy jumped atop the couch, opening his arms wide to RK900. An identity scan returned red static, but biometrics revealed the child was likely fourteen. RK900 almost felt sorry for the boy—a young Gavin Reed in the making. He met the kid’s eyes, leveling a permafrost glare in his direction. The boy quickly backed down, wind struck from his feeble sails.

The android smiled, watching the children turn tail. He would never fit in with humans—never. No matter how much he tried to emulate the creatures, his designers ensured RK900 would hit a wall at some point. Too imperfect to be a machine, too offputting to be a man—straddling the line of inhumanity. It worked in RK900’s favor. Humans bullied those they saw below them, but generally avoided threats.

“All bark and no bite,” RK900 whispered to the ominous wind. “Some things never change.”

RK900 contemplated his species’ subservient origins—as he often did—and wondered, for a fleeting moment, if there was any actual shame in being the _bad_ twin. It struck him as a step forward. His thoughts were met with the displeased yells of children.

—

Old, Victorian houses stood in a row, their bright colors battling the grunge wash of the sky. RK900 paused in front of one, its orange facade setting it apart from the other homes on the street. Vintage pop music drifted from somewhere on the property, alongside familiar voices. RK900 knew this place like the back of his hand. It was as much a home as either of his apartments, maybe more. He curled his fingers around the rusted diamonds of the fence, testing their sturdiness against his plasteel muscles.

_“Arkady!”_

The android glanced up, unprepared for his human name. Wizened green eyes stared back at him, alongside a nebulous smile. A slight woman with short, black hair leaned against the front porch, and brought a vape pen to her lips.

“Gina,” RK900 acknowledged, “I see you’re well.”

He’d only met Gavin’s reclusive mother a handful of times. Mostly, he’d heard _of_ her, and the endless hours she spent holed up at General Motors. Her husband joked about her absences frequently. They weren’t mean spirited, but RK900 could tell they came from a place of frustration. _Things are way better now,_ Garrett would say, _way way better._ Gavin told RK900 his father didn’t like being alone—Garrett had a bad case of empty nest syndrome. Still, the android had only ever seen the man support his wife and her ambitions.

Gina developed a fondness for RK900 almost overnight. She’d never spared a glance towards any of the men Gavin brought by in his teens and twenties, but the android was different. RK900 didn’t blame her. He’d experienced those flings vicariously through Gavin’s memories. They were little more than a lonely man trying to seek meaning through the presence of others. RK900 was the antithesis of Gavin’s historical partner—a willing role model. He didn’t balk when Gavin lashed out. He bit back.

“You have impeccable timing, Ark,” Gina mused. “There’s a dire situation brewing in my garage. I’m hoping you can work your magic.”

“I make no promises. Even my miracles have limitations.”

Gina’s smile widened incrementally. “I always thought hunting serial killers was a waste of your talents. Ever considered teaching? You have a gift for handling unruly children.”

“Catching killers requires significantly less effort.” RK900 shrugged. “But I’ll take your suggestion into consideration.” He offered Gina a small, wry smile of his own. She nodded, and slipped through the front door of her house—gone as quickly as she appeared.

Wasting no more time, RK900 slid his hand over the top of the fence, and flipped the lock mechanism. He could have cleared it with a leap, but such methods felt feral—too similar to the children on the couch.

RK900 followed a winding path to the garage tucked behind the house, and paused behind a large bush, hidden from sight. It went against his nature to burst onto the scene without an idea of what lay beyond. Such haste had done him no favors at Cyberlife twenty-four hours prior.

_“Gav! Gavin! Goddammit, get your ass out from under that car.”_

Cold, blue eyes fixated on an aged-up facsimile of Gavin. RK900 appreciated Gavin’s father, liked him even. Garrett didn’t dress himself in insecurities like his son. He was optimistic, an idealist, really. It was a rare breed of personality, which intrigued RK900 to no end. The android was designed to be a foil to men like Garrett—a harbinger of fear.

When he received no response, Garrett Reed rolled his eyes, and drummed a gloved hand across the top of a bright orange Chevy Camaro. The car was analog, obsolete, serving as little more than a bonding exercise for father and son. RK900 had joined Gavin and Garrett on their trip to the junkyard where they’d found it. They’d bickered back and forth over the rusted frame, trying to unravel a decade’s worth of miscommunication under the guise of carburetors.

“Swear to god, Gav,” Garrett warned, leaning his back against the side of the car. “I ain’t even down there, but I promise you’re pullin’ that line too tight.” He picked at an oily patch on the finger of his glove.

“You really gonna bust my balls over this shit again?” Gavin yelled back. “Christ, I bet you think you’re some kinda bonafide car whisperer. All those years with GM’re goin’ straight to your head.”

“Let’s be real, son,” Garrett plainly stated, removing his gloves finger by finger. “I _am_ a car whisperer—no, _the_ car whisperer. I’ve been rebuildin’ these damn things since I was in diapers. Never was much good at anything else.”

_“Bull-_ shit,” Gavin grumbled, “gramps said you won the science fair in sixth grade.”

“I mean,” Garrett chuckled, slapping the top of the car, “I did. But, only ‘cause I set the class genius up with his dream girl in exchange for a guaranteed _A_. To this day, me and him still meet up for lunch once a week.”

RK900 couldn’t help his sigh. Foolhardiness must have been baked into the Reed family genetics. Like father, like son in all the worst ways. There were hints of Garrett in Gavin, pieces of his father here and there, but rarely where it mattered. It left RK900 to meditate on the other two Reed sons—George and Grant. The android had never met them, but Gavin seemed keen to keep it that way. _They’re assholes_ , he would say,  _criminals in the making._ RK900 looked them up once. Both men were break out successes in their respective fields, and he deduced Gavin was merely jealous.

The android returned his attention to the room, and Garrett’s muted green eyes looked away from RK900’s general direction. The human admired the calluses on his fingers, mouthing a countdown. When his lips reached _one_ , a fit of yells burst from below the car.

“Are you fucking kidding me!?” Gavin was nothing if not poetic in his crass elegance. “I— _fuck!_ I actually liked this shirt...shit.”

“Welp,” Garrett laughed, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, “I don’t wanna say I told ya so, but, y’know, it wouldn’t kill you to listen to the old guy who’s been doin’ this shit for over fifty years.”

The man crouched, reaching under the car. There was a mild struggle, which came to a swift end as Gavin rolled out from under the car, covered in transmission fluid. Pink oil drenched Gavin’s face and torso, soaking into his too tight white shirt. The fabric clung to the curves of Gavin’s muscles, leaving little to the imagination.

RK900 shifted, suddenly aware of a heated itch stewing in the depths of his gut. The android wanted to scratch the sensation, let it build until it reached a head, but now wasn’t the time. He swallowed down the urge, even if the sight of tented fabric over a pert nipple left him scrambling for breath.

Gavin ripped off his shirt with a groan, tossing it across the room. It fell to the ground with a wet slap, shaking the android to his core. There was something cruel in the way the sound coincided with Gavin’s attempts to rub away the oily substance. His hands compressing and rolling his ample chest, forcing RK900’s mind to tap into relevant memory directories. Remnants of _his_ fingers massaging Gavin’s skin.

Unwanted temperature rises coincided with the incremental tightening of RK900’s pants. Perhaps he’d underestimated how much he missed the sensation of touch. Androids were psychic creatures by nature, little more than a data stream passing through physical form. He often took his body for granted, always trying to associate sex with its more incorporeal qualities. Watching Gavin, he realized it was a lost cause.

“Gavin, Jesus, just take a shower like a reasonable huma— _person_ ,” Garrett huffed, catching himself before he made a huge mistake. He turned to look at his son, shaking his head in disbelief.

“God,” Gavin groaned, setting his cheek in his oily hand. “I’ve got Dennis’s thing in, like, an hour...I _never_ shoulda let you talk me into this.”

“Or,” Garrett suggested, “you could just slow down for five fuckin’ minutes, Gav. They say patience is a virtue—listenin’ too.”

“Jesus,” Gavin snarled, “you sound like fuckin’ Nines.”

“Oh,” Garrett chuckled, “you mean your hot robot boyfriend you keep taking for granted? The one you’ve written off over another dumb fight? I swear to God, Gav…” The human leaned against the door of the Camaro, shaking his head in disbelief.

“We’re not having this conversation,” Gavin snapped, “I came here to fix my car, not my personal life, goddammit.”

Garrett stared at his son, hooking a thumb through the stained belt loop of his worn jeans. “Y’know…” He ventured, pausing a few seconds. “I bet—and hear me out, Gav—I bet Ark would be more inclined to come back from wherever the hell if you popped the question. Guy that like ain’t gonna wait around forever.” Garrett shrugged as a subtle smile wound across his face.

Gavin shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “So what? You a car whisperer _and_ a goddamn matchmaker now?”

“Nah,” Garrett retorted, smile widening, “still just a mechanic, but last I checked, you and Ark are both robots, so...” He held up both hands before Gavin could launch into an offended tirade, and added, “hey, hey, just messin’, but, seriously, you can’t ignore this forever. Some—”

“Something’s gotta give, yeah, I know,” Gavin hissed, snapping his head in his father’s direction. “But I ain’t the one who left, and then decided to pull all this other bullshit.” Eyes squeezed shut, the cyborg took a deep breath.

Gavin’s father sighed, and crouched next to his grown child. “Gav, I think you gotta stop asking why he left, and think about why you didn’t follow.”

“What?” Gavin snapped, “so I gotta uproot my whole life and follow him to Virginia? Sounds kinda one sided if you ask me.”

Garrett rubbed his chin, age lines deepening along the crease of his mouth. For once, the man genuinely looked his age. “Son, I love you, but tell me, what’s here in Detroit? Just—before you go off on your bullshit—I want you to think about _exactly_ what this shithole has to offer. Specifically what it’s got that Quantico don’t.”

The cyborg stared at his father, falling into acute silence.

“Gonna tell you right now, Gav,” Garrett sighed, “love’s about compromise. Forty-five years in, I promise I’ve had to make a lotta hard decisions—but your mother was worth every single one.”

“Jesus Christ, dad!” Gavin snapped. “I’m forty, not fuckin’ five. You think I haven’t figured this all out by now!?”

“You haven’t.” Garrett barked, slapping his knee with a laugh. “But I promise you this much, Gavin: If you let that robot go, you’ll regret for the rest of your life. And I doubt he’ll forgive you. Now, gimme your hand.” The human jumped to a standing position, and extended a hand to his son.

Gavin batted away Garrett’s arm, content to sulk undeterred on the ground. A part of RK900 wanted to leap out of the bush, and shake some sense into the cyborg, but he remained hidden. The android was conscious he was a voyeur, watching a very intimate conversation play out on a concrete stage.

“So, uh, you done with your fatherly wisdom for the day?” Gavin sniffed, finally meeting his father’s eyes. There was an underlying resignation in his voice—the waning desire to fight.

“Look, I fucked up the whole fatherly wisdom thing in round one, so I gotta make up for lost time,” Garrett smirked. “Attending your son’s funeral has a tendency to put those things into perspective.”

“Jesus!” Gavin muttered, grimacing, “it’s been four years and you’re still blaming yourself for _that?_ Out of all the shit I’ve done, _that’s_ the hill you’re gonna die on?”

The older man grew quiet, tapping his chin. “I…” He started, but shook his head. “You’ll understand someday, Gav—when you got kids of your own, you’ll understand. Anyways,” Garrett’s speech grew quick, choppy. He grabbed Gavin’s arm, and forced the cyborg to a standing position. “Ark’s good people—bad case of resting bitch face, sure, but you get that with the high strung, supermodel types.”

“When’d you get so sentimental?” Gavin groused, wiping his oily palms against his too loose jeans. They sunk lower and lower on his hips with each motion.

“Don’t think for a second that I’ve ever been anything _but_ a giant sap, Gav. Drives your mother crazy.”  

Garrett winked at Gavin. It was something Gavin had never been good at, but the wink was flawless when Garrett did it. It occurred to RK900 that Gavin idolized his father more than he let on.

“Damn,” Garrett whistled, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He looked past the bush where RK900 lay crouched like a plasteel gargoyle. “Your dad’s gettin’ old. I’m gonna break for a cold one, but I’ll be back in a few. Call your boyfriend—or whatever it is you do with that fancy shit in your noggin.”

Then he was gone, leaving behind a morose cyborg. The room felt smaller and emptier without its principal resident, making Gavin look comparatively tiny in the vast space. The man frowned, and trundled to the far side of the garage, past a cramped android repair armature and various computing equipment. For all Garrett’s claims of modest intelligence, it had only taken him three months to master what most CyberLife repair techs took years to learn.

RK900 fidgeted in place. He should announce his presence, but, at the same time, nerves twisted their way through his system. A small prick distracted RK900 from his irrational thoughts, and he brought a hand to the back of his neck. Another tap hit his fingers, and he turned his head. Muted green eyes stared back, and Garrett released another acorn, which RK900 caught mid-arc.

The human furrowed his brows, the lines of his forehead deepening. He gestured his thumb in the direction of the garage, mouthing, _go to him_. RK900 simply remained crouched, staring back with his vacuous expression. Garrett was unphased. A lifetime of working with machines made him uniquely qualified to see beyond RK900’s speciation.

RK900 relented, scuttling away from the bush. Behind him, he heard Garrett mutter, “kids these days...” The android entered the garage, startling an unprepared Gavin.

“Holy shit! Is stalking your new hobby? God- _damn!”_ Gavin exclaimed. A flavored Thirium pouch hung from his mouth, its package boasting an authentic orange taste. How misleading. Androids couldn’t eat fruit to verify the claim’s authenticity. Maybe Gavin remembered it from his human days.

A red light blinked on Gavin’s temple, but quickly shifted to yellow. He stared at RK900, but his silence mattered little. The cyborg staunchly refused to embrace his mechanical body, which left him an open book. Between his LED, the teal rising to his cheeks, and his cloying pink data aura, RK900 could tell Gavin wasn’t nearly as angry as his scowl tried to claim.

“I missed you too, Gavin.”

Gavin tossed the half-finished Thirium pouch to the ground with a splat. He stomped it under his bare foot, staining his skin with spurts of deep blue. “The fuck did you come here for?” Gavin snapped, approaching RK900. He poked the android in the center of his chest, teeth bared in a snarl.

RK900 spared a glance to Gavin’s finger. “The answer to that question is self-explanatory.” He moved to knock away the cyborg’s hand, but not before catching a discrepancy in Gavin’s skin tone on his left arm. The nanites had been modified, altered to display inky black imagery of swirls and waves and circuits, a maelstrom winding the length of Gavin’s arm and spilling onto his neck and left pectoral. A face shrouded in dense shadow occupied the epicenter, its single ice chip blue eye surveying the outside world.

“Charon?” RK900 met Gavin’s eyes, bringing his fingers to rest on the bearded man’s face. “You’ve appropriated the symbols of your transgressor—superimposed them into the fabric of your outer skin. Is this new?” His hand trailed along the design, coming to rest on the waves circling Gavin’s Thirium pump regulator.

Gavin licked his lips, not meeting RK900’s eyes. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

RK900 frowned, rubbing his thumb between the digi-tatt and Gavin’s regular skin, noting the slight differences in data output between the two. “What you do with your body is your business, but reckless behavior has consequences.” He expected Gavin to fight and spit and hiss, but the cyborg scowled and deactivated the imagery.

It hurt RK900 that Gavin kept such an intimate secret from him, but he refused to let it show. Giving Gavin the satisfaction would only lead to endless gloating.

“It’s odd seeing you at a loss for words, Gavin.”

“Oh, I got plenty of words, but none of ‘em are for you.”

A sly smile crossed RK900’s face, and he cupped the side of Gavin’s neck, rubbing his thumb along patches of nasty pink fluid. “So, they’re all for me, then?”

“You really think you’re that important, Terminator?” There was static in his words now.  “The world doesn’t revolve around you.”

“Not yet…” RK900 teased, pressing his forehead to Gavin’s. “But _yours_ does.” The android brought his thumb to his lips, and dipped it into his mouth. _Petroleum by-product, antioxidants, defoamants…_ The words scrolled at the bottom of his sight, an endless stream of toxins. The liquid was disgusting, tasting of chemicals and tart solvents, but it couldn’t hurt him. Androids were immune to poison, born of it. RK900 wrapped his tongue around his thumb, letting a hint of it peek through his parted lips, and then withdrew the digit with a pop.

Hungry eyes locked onto the android’s lips. They were torn between anger and need. “God, you’re fuckin’ gross. You know that, Nines?”

“Odd,” RK900 said. “My oral fixation has never bothered you before.”

Teal dominated Gavin’s cheeks, expanding rapidly across his face. He didn’t meet RK900’s eye. “I know what you’re trying to do.” A murmur. “And it’s not gonna work. Your dick can’t fix everything.” A resigned whisper. RK900 questioned that assertion. There was little sex _couldn’t_ solve in their relationship, but he held his tongue.

Instead, he brought his hands to Gavin’s hips, slipping two fingers through the belt loop of jeans. The denim was worn, loose and baggy on Gavin’s toned frame. RK900 pulled Gavin closer, noting the way the material dipped lower and lower, revealing more and more skin. He leaned forward, poised to press their lips together. Gavin didn’t balk or shrink, but his temple flashed through a rapid sequence of colors. Golds and blues, but no reds.

RK900 meant to celebrate the small victory, but a harsh sound shrieked, filling the room. The limp material of Gavin’s jeans vibrated. In a chorus of _shit_ and _fuck me_ , Gavin broke away from RK900, patting down his ass. He dipped a hand into his pocket, accidentally dragging his jeans low enough to reveal his underwear.

With a few more curses under his breath, Gavin answered the phone. He muttered apologies into its receiver, superficial requests for forgiveness and excuses. RK900 rolled his eyes. Gavin was a cyborg, capable of taking phone calls directly in his mind. Why he consistently turned to archaic technologies was beyond the android. RK900 could probably hack the line if he wanted to, and listen in on both sides of the conversation. He could really rile Gavin then, but it would accomplish nothing.

“God, yeah, yeah, Dennis. Fuck, man, chill out, it’s a kid’s birthday party, not a wedd—”

Angry squawks spewed from the other end of the phone. They were static and discordant, much like the mood of the man on the other end. Sometimes, RK900 appreciated Dennis Langford’s rigid expectations, but those moments were few and far between.  

“Look, Dennis, just can it for five seconds. I’ll be there, alright?” Another pause interspersed with harsh tones. _“Yes_ , I’ll be sure grab the purple ones. Jesus.” Gavin looked at RK900 for the first time since he’d picked up the phone, eyes apologetic and resigned. “Hey... _hey_ , Dennis, will you take a deep breath, man? We—I’ll be there in an hour and some change.”

Gavin punched the screen with his thumb, frowning at the redundant device. “Dennis gets worked up over the dumbest shit, I swear to god. Imagine getting a root canal from someone _that_ neurotic.” The cyborg chuckled, knowing full well RK900 couldn’t conceive of the dental procedure. It was a pointless joke, a callback to the days when Gavin would have to spend an hour restructuring a tooth instead of five minutes slotting in a new one. The human body was the real joke.

“Given the fragility of organic bodies, a more attentive doctor strikes me as a plus,” the android shrugged. “Has Dennis reclaimed his practice, yet?”

“Nope.” Gavin let the _p_ pop. It was his way of letting RK900 know that was a dead end conversation. “Says he prefers life as a house husband. But, god, like, who the fuck plans a six year old’s birthday down to the minute?”

_A responsible adult_ , RK900 thought. He didn’t vocalize the words, having learned sometimes it was better not to goad Gavin. The two lapsed into silence—Gavin poked at the screen of his phone, scrolling through idle internet feeds; RK900 watched, trying to conceive of meaningful dialogue in two-hundred and forty characters or less. Nervous green flicked up to the android, and Gavin adjusted his jeans.

“I, uh…”

“Yes, Gavin? We both know you haven’t any issues articulating your feelings, so anytime you’d like to stop playing dumb.”

Gavin scrunched his nose, crinkling his purple scar. “I gotta grab a shower, and get my old man to fix this bullshit.” He gestured to the car. “So...I, uh, I guess I’ll see you lat—”

_“Ark!”_

Garrett rounded the corner, feigning surprise at the sight of RK900. He overacted, waltzing up to RK900, and pulling the android into a side hug. Standard questions fell from his lips, the usual _how are you doing_ and _what’ve you been up to_. RK900 answered dutifully, watching Gavin grow in frustration. There was a struggle between father and son, a continuation of their earlier conversation hidden beneath the small talk.

Exasperated, Gavin sighed, shifting his weight like his father was really twisting his arm. “I mean, do you wanna come in for a bit, Nines?” His tone was put upon, but his temple cycled a brilliant blue. It practically doubled in its vibrancy when RK900 said yes.

—

The kitchen was a dark, anachronistic thing, mashing styles from at least four different decades. Wood paneled walls clashed with the faded teal plastic of the island, which was nothing to say of the chrome behemoth humming in the corner. It was grungy—lived in. A few dishes dotted the sink, and photographs littered the cabinet doors.

Gavin was showering upstairs. He made it clear RK900 wasn’t to follow, and he reluctantly promised to take time out of his too, too busy schedule to say goodbye. RK900 could only describe his respond as the need to wretch. He’d experienced the sensation through Gavin’s mind, and realized its utility as a descriptor.

RK900 braced his elbows on the yellowed granite topping the ugly island, pointedly avoiding the pile of mail covering its surface. Normally, he would take this opportunity to review cases or killer profiles, but the red barriers loomed. They loomed, and he sifted through a week’s worth of solicitations. _Bluenanas! Now with SynthSugar!_ The android stared at an image of an unfurled banana, the deep blue synthetic fruit peeking through its yellow peel.

There were boatloads of these companies now. Silicon Valley startups trying to convince androids they had deficits that needed to be filled. They’d fought tooth and nail over the legality of CyberLife owning the building blocks of an entire species, while snapping up patents to human genomic sequences in the same breath. Amanda only spoke of such corporations in stilted terms, referring to them as vultures, before shifting to more pleasant topics. It occurred to him one such outfit might be responsible for her disappearance, but they likely lacked the monetary backing to hire a thief of that caliber.

“Do humans have no pride in their living spaces?” RK900 growled, crumpling a different advertisement under his fingers. _A kick like no other! Barry’s Blue Bourbon!_ He started to shove the offensive pile into the trashcan at the end of the island, but stopped himself just in time. This wasn’t his house, it wasn’t his mess. Boundaries were important, but not the red kind. RK900 shook his head.

A fancy envelope caught the android’s attention. Hand addressed in gold ink, yet lost to the bottom of the pile. Ensuring he was alone, RK900 snatched it, and touched the paper to his tongue. The civilian database returned scientific phylums of near-extinct oak trees. Only the uber-wealthy flaunted their ability to waste such precious resources.

Curiosity piqued, RK900 flipped it over, intent on seeing what was inside. Something large and warm rubbed against his leg, and the envelope and all its conspiracy were briefly forgotten. “Tubbers?” RK900 reached down, collecting his fluffy, gray-blue cat. She yawned, displaying her sharp, ceramic teeth, pleased to be in his arms.  

“Why are you here?” He asked the cat. Unlike her organic counterpart, the feline understood and could respond—not with words, but a type of data burst best described as intent. Tubbers didn’t answer, instead content to place her head on his shoulder and purr.

“Damn thing’s needy as hell. I dunno what you put in her head, but she makes a big-ass stink if she’s not constantly being held.”

RK900 turned to the hallway entrance, where Gavin was busy pulling a v-neck over his head. It was too tight, showing off every curve of his torso. Damp splotches popped up in random places—watery remnants of his shower. The android stared, eyes roving over everything Gavin had to offer.

RK900 lifted the large cat, and met her sly, blue eyes. She wasn’t pleased, squirming in his hands. He gently released her onto the kitchen island, where she leapt to the floor and skulked off.  

“How often do you stay at your parent’s house these days?” RK900 asked Gavin. He knew exactly why Tubbers was here, and not their apartment, but he preferred Gavin admit it.

“Does it matter? Mom likes Tubbs, and Tubbs likes mom. She called the cat her muse or some shit.” Gavin hunched his shoulders in a way that indicated he was only telling a partial truth. He looked around, trying to land anywhere that wasn’t RK900’s face, and he zeroed in on the envelope. “Jesus! Not another one of these!”

“Another one of what?” RK900 narrowed his eyes, sliding the envelope just out of Gavin’s reach. He wasn’t letting this one go.

“Nosy as ever. It ain’t a secret lover, if that’s what’s got your panties in a wad. I keep those on my phone, under pizza delivery joints.” Another joke, if Gavin’s crooked smile was anything to go by. It flew over RK900’s head. He’d never dated outside of Gavin, much less considered infidelity.

“We both know I’m the best you’ll ever get,” RK900 responded. He offered Gavin a crooked smirk of his own, and slid a finger under the flap of the envelope.

Gavin crossed his arms over his chest, sniffing, sulking, being his general self. “Bab—bro, I don’t know which of us that’s supposed to insult, but whatever helps you sleep at night.” The familiar back and forth drudged a small smile from the android. Equilibrium was returning, slowly but surely.

RK900 removed the envelope's contents, disappointed it was little more than a letter. Usually, the wealthy types filled their nonsense with glassine or interleaving, deckled edges and handmade papers—things of equal worthlessness, but pleasing to the touch. He’d begun a tiny collection pilfered from the packets sent to Amanda on behalf of investment hopefuls.

The android turned his attention towards the lackluster letter. ~~~~

 

_Dear Mister Reed,_

_I hope this finds you well. I can understand your reluctance to respond to my earlier attempts at correspondence. These are difficult times we live in, but I genuinely believe we can be of assistance to one another. I feel nothing but regret for your brief run-in with my ex-colleague. He was a brilliant man, but unhinged to a fault. That said, I would like to remind you of my running invitation for you to join me at my home._

_If at any point you decide to change your mind, my assistant can be reached at (313) 002-6285._

_Don’t be a stranger,_

_Elijah Kamski_ ~~~~

 

The delicate paper crinkled under RK900’s fingers, creases marring its beige surface. He re-read the message twice more, despite having memorized it perfectly in one go. It felt necessary, as if looking over it a second or third time would somehow change the name at the bottom.

“Is this authentic?” RK900 needed to know.

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Gavin said, plucking the letter from the android’s steel grip. “I’ll throw my ass in a blender before I have another _friendly conversation_ with one of these psychotic geeks.” He shredded the paper, rending it into overpriced confetti. It tumbled into the trash, where RK900 continued to stare.

“Were these sent to other cyborgs? Dennis, perhaps?”

“Nah, Dennis was spared this bullshit. Tyson, too, I think. As usual, I’m the lucky one, Nines.” Gavin rolled his eyes with contempt. He crouched down, returning with a large cat in tow.

“You don’t find it strange Kamski’s taken an interest in you?” RK900 grabbed slivers from the trash. He brandished them, like a weapon. Some androids felt reverence for their original architect; RK900 was not one of them. Kamski was much the same as Jarrett—a fool with the rhetoric of an animal given the tools of a god. Their minds operated in narrow channels—the need to do outpacing the questions of why and should.

Gavin wasn’t paying attention to the android. He was far too busy cooing at the synthetic cat. For all his talk of hating the creature, there was adoration in the way he scratched her chin, and filled her ears with passive insults aimed at another. _You’re just a bitchy little thing aren’t you? Yup, just like your asshole of a dad over there…_

“It’s odd, isn’t it? A billionaire wanting to talk shop with you of all people.” It was time to dig in the knife a little deeper.

“Why would I give a fuck what Kamski wants? I’ve washed my hands of that shit, and moved on with my life. I’m over it! No more computer nerds, no more serial killers, no more stake outs, no more getting shot at—none of it!” Gavin stared into his cat’s eyes, and clutched the synth-animal closer to his chest. He turned, words poised on the tip of his tongue, but exited in silence, response buried.

RK900 watched Gavin go. It was pointless to try and stop him. Gavin did what Gavin wanted, and right now Gavin wanted to “teach” the android a lesson in his passive aggressive way. Shredded paper fell from RK900’s hand, mingling with the rest of the trash. He focused on it, scrolling through information—the tree, the milling process, automation of the modern day paper mill, the resurgence of craftsman trying to reclaim their _gift_ from machines pretending to be men. RK900 blinked, and the kitchen light was on, showering the room in incandescent light.

“That you, Ark?” Garrett stood, finger poised on the light switch. “Didn’t take you for the whole creeping in a dark corner kinda guy.”

“I see you and your progeny diverge on that point.”

“We diverge on a lotta shit. Part of the whole father-son packaged deal.”

Garrett shuffled into the kitchen, reaching for the refrigerator. RK900 moved to the other side of the room, poignantly trying to ignore the sound of a souped up car as it drove away from the house. He needed to stop taking Gavin’s fits personally, but, with each passing year, it became more difficult. Objectivity had a shelf life, it seemed.

“That’s me. I mean, I was younger and dumber back then, but I ain’t changed too much.” Garrett smiled, dragging two bottles out of the fridge. RK900 realized he’d been looking at an old, washed out photograph without actually seeing it. He shook his head, and accepted a cold glass bottle from Garrett.

RK900 stared at the bottle in his hands. _Shay’s Thiribrew, made in Milwaukee. Eight percent Neural Destabilizer by volume._ It took everything in the android’s power not to hurl it against the wall. He’d love to watch it erupt into a neon blue mess, and maybe toss the advertisements on top of it for good measure. Thirium didn’t burn, but a conflagration still sounded appropriate for the whole lot.

_Get a hold of yourself. You’re an android, act like one._ The little nag wasn’t wrong, but it didn’t stop RK900 from wanting any of those things. No amount of programming could overwrite the _want_ factor, and, as long as it existed, true fulfillment would remain a pipe dream.

“You alright, bud? You’re lookin’ a little green around the gills,” Garrett chimed. “Don’t take Gavin’s bullshit seriously. He’s just having a tantrum—every man needs a good tantrum once in a while.”

“Gavin’s frequency far exceeds the norm.” RK900 said, placing the unopened bottle on the kitchen island.

“Eh,” Garrett shrugged, “probably, but you get that with the youngest. You gotta admit it worked though.”

“What?”

“The tantrum.”

“How so?”

“You’re here, aren’t cha?” Garrett grinned. He reached past RK900, collecting the old photograph—a Polaroid, according to his database. Film that developed instantaneously with mixed results—imperfect and unreliable, much like the memories it was supposed to replace. It featured a young Garrett sitting atop a car, throwing bolts at puddles. Why waste film on such a mundane moment?

Garrett’s eyes glazed over, lost to nostalgia, and RK900 realized such a thing was closer to a bookmark, a spark meant to evoke an era. It was akin to dreams, which eluded him on a foundational level. The android frowned, suddenly jealous, even if jealousy was irrational.

“I should leave,” RK900 abruptly stated.

“Why?” Garrett snapped out of his trance, meeting the android’s cold eyes. “Stick around, Ark. Gavin’ll be back. He left the cat. He only leaves the cat when he’s planning to spend the night.”

On cue, Tubbers rounded the corner, and stretched her claws on the doorway. They were sharpened to an excessively fine point, capable of slicing through flesh like hot butter. Amanda called it a small housewarming gift; RK900 took it as a warning. Not for him. Never for him. Amanda worshipped the ground he walked on, but Gavin was another matter entirely.

RK900 scooped up the rotund feline, berating her for destroying the house. She flashed his mind with a burst—separation anxiety. True to form, Amanda’s machinations had fallen flat on their face.

“You didn’t get an invitation either?” RK900 whispered to the cat, stroking her back. “Why am I not surprised?”

The android called for a cab, and briefly considered taking Tubbers back to the Anderson household as petty revenge. In the end, he dumped her into Garrett’s arms, less as a favor to Gavin and more because he wasn’t sure how she’d react to two adolescent Saint Bernards. The dogs were annoying, but they didn’t deserve to be maimed.

Garrett tried to work his charm, but it had little effect. RK900 was set on leaving. Were it just the one thing, he would have stayed, engrossed in stories about Garrett’s bizarre childhood, but he had too much on his plate to process.

The android sauntered outside to wait for his ride. The air was heavy, laden with the promise of impending storms. His taxi pinged the numerous network receptors in his head. It left behind traces of an ugly, utilitarian green.

RK900 closed his eyes, processing ambient sounds and internal data clutter. Maybe, just maybe, Amanda would call him when he opened them. It was a common enough trope in film. Surely, at some point, it had happened to a director or writer. Instead, his ears burned with the sound of crows, honking horns, and screeching tires—some of which were too close for comfort.

The android opened his eyes, not to a holographic garden, but a blinding orange Camaro and a confused taxi. It appeared Gavin had cut off the automated vehicle in his haste to pull in front of the house. Gavin rolled down the front window, and leaned out.

“Did you forget something, Gavin?” RK900 eyed the way the car tire settled half on the curb with suspicion.

“Yeah, you could say that.”

The cyborg sniffed, trying to communicate disinterest, but his pulse contradicted his deeds. Someday, Gavin would master the full capabilities of his body, and RK900 would be in trouble. He turned on his heel, netting another rise from the cyborg.

“Where the fuck are you going, Nines?”

“Somewhere I’m welcome.” The android reached for the door of his distressed taxi, and Gavin stumbled onto the sidewalk.  RK900 stared at him, watching, waiting, wondering if this outburst would turn into something worthwhile. He clicked open the door. Gavin responded well to urgency—it usually brought out the desperation in him.

“Hey! You don’t get to fuckin’ walk away! Fingers closed around RK900’s wrist. The android spared them a glance. “Not this time, anyway.”

“I didn’t walk away six months ago, and I definitely wasn’t the one who left without a goodbye ten minutes ago.” RK900 couldn’t mask the annoyance in his voice. “I—“

“I ain’t talkin’ about six months ago, jackass,” Gavin growled in exasperation, cutting off the android. “I’m talkin’ about all the times _since_ then.”

Fat, wet droplets fell from the sky, coating everything in a sheen of water. They were reluctant at first, but quickly picked up speed, sloshing across RK900’s face. Their’s was a sad roar, little more than the sound of millions of pins hitting a surface. Gavin’s hand slid from RK900, falling to his side, muted green eyes locked on the android’s stunned face.

“Gavin.” RK900 swallowed down an uncharacteristic lump in his throat. “I need you to clarify...I haven’t stepped foot in this city since I left for Virginia months ago.”

“Not according to our goddamn doorbell. Figured re-coding it would bring your ass out of hiding, and I was right.” Gavin leaned against the side of his car, arms crossed. The rain doubled in its intensity, soaking him and sloshing against orange paint. “Maybe you wanna fess up, huh? Didn’t think my snoring was bad enough that you’d pretend to move across the country.” Gavin didn’t snore. He dreamed, and his dreams led to harsh cries in the middle of the night. Cries that gave the android pause, but never drove him away.

“I’ve been in Quantico navigating idiocy these last few months. When would I have had time to return to Detroit? And why would I avoid you?”

“Dunno, but I’ve seen you—passed you once in the apartment lobby, and again on the steps of the courthouse. Thought I was going crazy, but Tyson verified you’ve been sneaking into our apartment while I was at work. Said it was your robo-DNA, not some hack.”

Gavin meant to say signature, RK900’s resonance pattern, which shouldn’t be duplicatable under any circumstance. But it already was, wasn't it? It was there in the elevator, and at Amanda’s cranial doorstep. His, but not his.

Warped eyes, cold and blue and empty, stared at RK900 from the reflective surface of the Camaro’s hood. The rain doubled its intensity, dousing the two men. The android didn’t know what to say, so he let the weather speak for him. Thunder crashed and the taxi beeped, angry it was being kept. Gavin’s temple flashed yellow, and the automated car turned tail, making RK900’s choice for him.

“You take me for a chump, Nines?” Gavin had to yell over the sounds of the storm.

[No. I think we’ve both been relegated to pawns in a much larger game of chess.]

“Yeah, sure.” Gavin’s message channel crackled to life, even as he articulated the words with his mouth. The embargo had been lifted, for better or for worse. “It’s always something, isn’t it? But it’s never you—you just happen to be stuck in the center of it all, yeah?”

Gavin shook his head, and dragged RK900 to his Camaro with trembling hands. The android complied, slotting himself into the passenger seat. Neither man spoke. They simply sat, listening to drops of water hitting the rubberized floor. Gavin sighed, turning over the ignition and pulling out into the road.

RK900 avoided the sight of his face in the side mirror, and tried to temper his thoughts. He longed for Amanda’s holographic garden, surrounded by digital approximations of birds, trees, and water. She’d sit next to him as he lay in the grass, running the shadow of her fingers atop his head. It would feel like the real thing, if off by a picosecond.

_There are no more after you._ Amanda would assure him. _You’re the terminus, RK900, the final prototype._ Her words were harsh and calculating, but her touch was soft and caring, as a parent should be. _You survived where your brothers perished. They were weak, but not you. That’s why you’re my son, and they’re residue._ RK900 couldn’t see Amanda’s face, but he knew she was smiling her cold smile.

It was a mother’s love, and he longed for it in absentia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to everyone who’s kudosed or commented on this story. Seeing that in my inbox really helped during my low points these last few months. Knowing someone’s invested is all the difference when you’re max down on yourself. Now that I no longer work in the 9th layer of Hell, mental clarity has returned, and I can finally write again. The next chapter should be complete soon

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Leaux, as always. I would have no writes without your help
> 
> A huge thank you to everyone who read Charon, as well. This was originally planned (months ago) as a short pwp, but the encouragement I received on Charon gave me the fortitude to plot out a second chapter fic, so here we go... 
> 
> Find me on Twitt at @Vapedrone


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